


Aethertrails II

by DT Maxwell (Draya)



Series: Whiskey & Arcanima [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (except she can't sing worth a damn), Ala Mhigo, Alphinaud might be an arcanima genius, Arcanists' Guild, Aunt-Niece Relationship, Aymeric and Synnove are two smitten dorks who make my teeth hurt with how fucking sweet they are, Battle Couple, Battle of Carteneau, Best Friends, Carbuncle Shenanigans, Dancing, F/M, FFXIVwrite2018, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Mush, Food Porn, Gen, Introspection, Knitting, Mad Science, Magical Tattoos, Mathematics, Mealvaan's Gate, Multiple Warriors of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 4.1: The Legend Returns, Physics, Plagiarism, Pre-Relationship, Returning Home, Science Experiments, Synesthesia, Tales from the Storm spoilers, Tattoos, The Steps of Faith, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Worldbuilding, actual Disney princess Synnove Greywolfe, but Synnove is the alpha nerd, don't do it if you don't want a pissed off Highlander on your ass, it's super bad kids, never touch Synnove's coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 28,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draya/pseuds/DT%20Maxwell
Summary: Collection of completed prompt fills from the FFXIV Write 2018 challenge on Tumblr. Featuring, as ever, Synnove and her mischievous carbuncles, three fellow Warriors of Light, coworkers at the Arcanists' Guild, a certain Lord Commander, and their adventures throughout Eorzea.---One new chapter will be uploaded daily throughout December. Tags will be updated as needed as each prompt fill is added. See the Table of Contents for individual summaries and necessary warnings.





	1. Table of Contents

**1\. Table of Contents**  
(You are here!)

**2\. Experiment 285-G**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, Halulu, and experiments in carbuncle summoning)

**3\. Racing**  
(Mostly Gen with Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove, the carbuncles, Aymeric, and a too-busy mind)

**4\. In the Heart of the Gate**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove and one of her duties as Vice Chair of the Aetherophysics Department)

**5\. Horizon's Edge**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, Rereha, Heron, and why certain shortcuts should be avoided)

**6\. The First Day**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, Galette, and Tyr on the first day of the Seventh Umbral Era)

**7\. Grenades and Dragonkillers**  
(Pre-Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove, Ivar, and a special guest against Vishap on the Steps of Faith)

**8\. Spindle**  
(Gen, featuring Aunt Angharad, Synnove, and Synnove's thesis defense)

**9\. Earthen Fury**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, Tyr, Keltgeim Eyrtistyrwyn, Starling Nightsong, and an experiment with egi subprogramming)

**10\. Weft**  
(Gen, featuring Heron and her hobbies)

**11\. Death Comes**  
(Gen, featuring Alakhai, Rereha, and a prank gone very, very wrong)

**12\. Cannonball!**  
(Gen, featuring Nemene Boann, Keltgeim Eyristyrwyn, Starling Nightsong, Synnove, Ivar, and chores day at the Seekers Free Company house)

**13\. Feud**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, members of the Arcanists', Conjurers', and Thaumaturges' Guilds, and an academic conference in Radz-at-Han)

**14\. Childhood Delights**  
(Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric, Synnove, Galette, and traditional Ala Mhigan desserts)

**15\. Making the Book**  
(Gen, featuring Rereha, Synnove, Heron, Alakhai, Momodi Modi, and betting as entertainment)

**16\. Stargazing**  
(Gen, featuring Rereha, Heron, Alakhai, Synnove, and taking a break from responsibility to just enjoy life)

**17\. Ink**  
(Mostly Gen with minor Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove, Aymeric, and a very personal tattoo)

**18\. Excision**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove from a moment in her teenage years after joining the Arcanists' Guild)

**19\. Pigment**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, an exasperated tattoo artist, and Synnove's arcanima sleeve tattoos)

**20\. Chance Encounters**  
(Pre-Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove, Aymeric, Galette, a delighted silversmith, and a fine day at the Jeweled Crozier)

**21\. Clean Up**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, Halulu, and one hell of a SCIENCE! mess)

**22\. Seven Courses**  
(Gen, featuring Galette and a whole heaping helping of food porn)

**23\. Relief**  
(Aymeric/WoL, featuring Aymeric, Synnove, and some much needed time alone)

**24\. Starlight**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, Trifle and Chantilly the chocobos, Galette, and an assortment of donations for the people of Ala Mhigo)

**25\. Upgrades**  
(Gen, featuring Rereha, Alphinaud, Synnove, and two nerds being nerds)

**26\. Castaway**  
(Mostly Gen with minor Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove, Tyr, Aymeric, and a new addition to the family)

**27\. Carbuncle-nip**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove, Galette, and aether chalk)

**28\. Loyalty, Unity, Liberty**  
(Gen with minor Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove, Heron, Rereha, Alakhai, Lyse, M'naago, Hele, and the celebrations that occurred the night Ala Mhigo was liberated)

**29\. Wolves**  
(Gen, featuring Fordola rem Lupis, Synnove, Rereha, Heron, Alakhai, Arenvald, and the differences between the Echo and the Resonance)

**30\. Silver Bells**  
(Aymeric/WoL, featuring Synnove, the carbuncles, Rereha, Heron, Alakhai, Aymeric, and a very welcome surprise)

**31\. Resolution**  
(Gen, featuring Synnove and a return home)


	2. Experiment 285-G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #1: Submerged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr on November 1, 2018.

The tinkling chimes of a hammered dulcimer echoed in her ears: water aether singing to her senses. Synnove paced the outer edge of the lab, moving in a slow, deliberate manner like a hunting wolf. She kept a careful eye on the sealed tank at the north side of the room, squinting to peer at its contents when her circuit brought her close enough. Halulu sat at one of the desks around the perimeter, sharpening a set of osprey-feather quills and humming softly under her breath.

A glittering rose-cut sapphire sat within the containment module, combining with the trio of water crystals suspended from the top of the tank to scatter reflected rainbows throughout the tank. The aether pumped in was so thick it churned and swirled like physical water, ‘splashing’ against the thick glass walls, scattering reflected light throughout the laboratory.

Synnove completed two more circuits of the room before the timer gently rang and the aether began to drain out, funneled back to the storage batteries deep under the Gate. Another circuit brought Synnove back to the containment module as another quiet _beep_ signaled the excess aether had been entirely removed. The Highlander stared at the sapphire as she pulled on a pair of heavy work gloves and released the latches that unsealed the tank. As she swung open the heavy glass door, she picked up a pair of long tongs, and used them to carefully grasp the newly aspected sapphire.

She eyed the gem critically. “No cracks visible to the naked eye,” she said, Halulu dutifully transcribing in shorthand. Synnove strode over to an illuminated work table, setting the sapphire down and removing a jeweler’s magnifier from the tabletop. She placed the magnifier against her eye and leaned down to examine the stone. “No cracks internal or external,” she finally reported, standing upright and setting the magnifier aside.

“A marked improvement from the last batch,” Halulu said absently as her quill flew across the page.

Synnove grunted. “Still hearing hammered dulcimer,” she said. “As for taste…” She sighed heavily and picked up the sapphire, staring at for a few long moments. With another sigh, she popped it into her mouth.

After a few moments of thoughtful swishing, she spat the sapphire out into a handkerchief she had picked up from the table. “Rolanberry saltwater taffy,” she said, patting the gem dry.

“A _very_ marked improvement!”

The last batch had tasted like charred, over-salted alfalfa sprouts. Synnove’s eyebrow spasmed at the memory and she turned to glare at her assistant. The tonberry blinked at her innocently.

She _despised_ alfalfa sprouts. Rolanberry wasn’t her favorite flavor of taffy, but anything was better than _fucking alfalfa sprouts._ Damned quantifiable synesthesia.

Rather than bitch out her chief minion about reminding her about last week’s truly awful experiment, Synnove ground out, “Is the array ready?”

“ _‘Is the array ready?’_ she asks, like it wasn’t the first thing we did this morning.” Halulu’s tone of voice was equivalent to a visible eye roll as she hopped out of her chair and quickly shuffled to the center of the room, the edge of her robe brushing against the floor with a soft _swish_. She tapped on a console built into one of the lab’s permanent tables, and the metal floor retracted to reveal a fully laid out summoning array. To the uneducated eye, it looked like any other array used by arcanists, perhaps fancier with how it was etched in silvergrace ink. Anyone with training would recognize the differences, however: how the internal geometries were changed to accommodate different aether; specialized shorthand representing elaborate equations dictating power structures; instructions to recognize the unique power source from which to draw the energy to create something _new._

An empty spot lay at the very center of the array.

Halulu backed up and took her seat again as Synnove picked up the sapphire and walked forward. She set one foot down in an empty space between the sigils and shorthand and geometric structures and bent over to gently place the sapphire at the array’s heart. It settled into place with a ‘click.’

From another work table, Synnove picked up an engraved silvergrace stylus. She twirled it between her fingers as she stared down at the array for a long moment. “No time like the present,” she said. “Proceeding with Experiment 285-G. Going in five.”

“Ready!”

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” Synnove set the pointed tip of the stylus to the array, and began channeling her aether.

For ten glorious seconds, the array _sang_ : dulcimer, harp, rhythmic timpani that reminded her of waves crashing against the Middle La Noscean cliffs and winds whistling through and around Limsa Lominsa. Taffy and sweetened lemonade sat heavy on her tongue, the taste of high summer during the Moonfire Faire, and as aether began to physically coalesce, Synnove would later swear she saw two quickly twitching ears and three delightfully fluffy tails within the bright glow.

But then the taffy and lemonade went sour and disgustingly tart, and the timpani began drumming out of tune, and the harp strings snapped, and the hammered dulcimer went wild and out of pitch. Synnove had half a moment to groan out, “Ah, fucking _shite_ ,” before the sapphire **_CRACKED,_** and the aether fizzled out to nothing so quickly the air within the lab popped as it rushed to fill the sudden void.

Synnove sat cross legged on the floor, glaring at the smoking sapphire at the center of the array. “Fucking shite.”

Halulu’s quill scratching against parchment was jarring in the ringing silence. She didn’t say a word, but frustrated anger radiated off her as she hunched in her chair.

Synnove flopped backward, arms outspread but legs still crossed as she stared up at the lab’s ceiling. So close. So _fucking_ close. She wanted to punch something: they had nearly had it! But this was also the closest they gotten to manifesting a sapphire carbuncle since they’d begun trying, and knowing they were apparently on the right track lit a fire in her heart.

They _would_ do it!

She pursed her lips as a thought entered her mind, let it percolate for long minutes. “Halulu,” she said at long last, “where did those water crystals come from?”

Halulu flipped through her notes, humming tunelessly as she searched. “I just had it, where is—ah, here we go. One of them came from a mahogany tree in Raincatcher Gully, one from a Bloodshore pineapple bush, and the third from a water sprite near Bronze Lake.”

Synnove drummed the fingers of her right hand against the floor, thoughts racing. “All right, I want dedicated stock: crystals from Raincatcher, crystals from Bloodshore, and especially crystals from water sprites. If you can further segregate the latter by geographic area, even better.”

She had some hypotheses to test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was primarily an exercise in remembering and properly implementing my headcanon that Synnove experiences sound and taste synesthesia related to aether and spellwork.
> 
> Also, Synnove may hate alfalfa sprouts, but I love them! One of my favorite salad mix-ins.


	3. Racing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #2: Silenced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 2, 2018.

_Adjusting P 1 \+ ρgy1 \+ ½ρv12 = P2 \+ ρgy2 \+ ½ρv22 to account for variations in aetheric density of individual crystals—_

One step forward. Another. And another. Tyr’s head at her left hip and Ivar at her right knee carefully steering her. Galette in front clearing and guiding the way, a beacon of friendly blue-green light.

_Show that the curvature of a planar curve which satisfies the equation y = f(x) is given by κ(x) = |f”(x)| divided by (the square root of 1 + (f’(x)) 2) 3—_

Up a step. Up another. Galette phasing through the door. No, breaking physics is bad! Too tired to scold. The lock clicking, and the door swinging open. Ivar and Tyr herding her inside, Galette dropping down from the inside latch.

“Synnove?”

Oh, Aymeric! Wait. How did she get to Ishgard? Or was she still in Limsa Lominsa?

_i_ _ℏ(∂/∂t) Ψ(r,t) = -(_ _ℏ 2/2m) _ _∇ 2 Ψ(r,t) + V(r) Ψ(r,t) for change over time in the enclosed system for the array—_

“I have her, Tyr.” A brassy _maow!_ of acknowledgement and—oh! All right. Up she was. Wheeeee.

Aymeric has nice arms. Like, _really_ nice. Damn.

_C = 2πr where C is 16 ilms, solve for r, rounded to sixth decimal place, 2.546479 ilm radius for Aymeric’s biceps. Heh._

“Watch your head, sweetling, I’m going down the stairs now.”

Down the--? Oh, still in Limsa Lominsa, then. Her house.

_Find the volume of an object where w = 45 fulms—_

Down? Down. Oh, soft. Bed? Bed! Comfy. Flop. Mmm, pillows.

“Lift your feet for me, Synnove, let’s get your boots off.”

Right boot. Left boot. Ugh. Legs are heavy.

_Cylindrical or spherical capacitor for the next round of experiments? Cylindrical. C = (2πrκ_ ε0 _ℓ) / ln(b/a)—_

Being gently shifted so she lay properly on the bed. Head on a pillow, feet propped on something. Folded quilt? Very squishy. Definitely folded quilt. Happy feet.

Aymeric sliding in next to her, arm around her shoulders and nuzzling her temple. Flop head on his chest. Chuckling. Mmmmmmmm, laughing Aymeric.

Ivar loafing on her feet. Warm. _Very_ warm. Cozy. Vibrating? Purring.

Tyr wiggling up the mattress to settle on her other side. Tails across her legs. Across Ivar, too. Annoyed huff from Ivar. Tyr ignoring him. Tyr’s head shoved into her stomach. Brassy purr. Whole bed shaking.

_External force applied to static system represented as F(t) = F 0 sinꞷt, where F0 represents amplitude and ꞷ represents frequency—_

Galette flopping onto her lap. Dramatic. High-pitched whine. Spoiled! Hand on her head. Scritch scritch scritch. Chiming purr.

_L 1 = 10log—Static._

Sigh of relief.

_Contentment. Finally._

Sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. It doesn't happen often, but if Synnove gets too deep in a research bender, her mind gets stuck in a math rut: nearly every little passing thought gets immediately shunted back to some sort of work-related project or just gets turned into a math or physics problem. Takes removing her from a work environment entirely before she can start disengaging and 'shut down.'
> 
> And yes, these are all real equations! I took poli sci in undergrad, so this was the result of much Googling and figuring out A) what apply in arcanima and B) can I find an equation to match a phenomena that Synnove's brain starts making associations for.


	4. In the Heart of the Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #3: Adytum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 3. 2018.

_[RETINAL SCAN CONFIRMED: AETHEROPHYSICS DEPARTMENT VICE CHAIR SYNNOVE GREYWOLFE. VOCAL WAVEFORM AND PASSWORD CONFIRMATION REQUIRED.]_

“Strict proof eternal, reflected in glass and starlight.”

_[VOCAL WAVEFORM AND PASSWORD CONFIRMED: AETHEROPHYSICS DEPARTMENT VICE CHAIR SYNNOVE GREYWOLFE. PASSWORD REMOVED FROM INTERNAL DATABASE. ACCESSING SUBBASEMENT TWELVE.]_

There were, occasionally, reasons why reverse engineering Allagan technology was an excellent idea. Stronger security features were one of them.

Synnove rode the elevator downward in silence, absently watching the floors tick pass. The Gate had only so much room and so many towers to house the hive of activity of the Arcanists’ Guild: labs and practice halls and classrooms and libraries offices and dormitories. Never mind the business of the thalassocracy’s custom house, which dominated the ground floor.

And so, they built down, carving into the great looming stone that formed the city. Down to the ocean floor, to bedrock. Down, down, down.

Some of the dorms were here, as well as the newer classrooms. Laboratories remained strictly above sea level: doing otherwise courted disaster, with how wont arcanists were to indulge in experiments that frequently turned volatile. All it would take was one poorly timed explosion in a sublevel lab to destabilize the foundations and bring the whole Gate crashing into the sea.

Storerooms made up the vast majority of the subbasement system. Food for the mess, parchment, chalk, blank grimoires, furniture, old instrumentation and lab equipment. The deeper the subbasement, the more volatile or important the items. Subbasement eleven, for example, housed the controls for the new security system for the _sensitive_ areas of the Gate.

Subbasement twelve was the deepest subbasement currently in use. Only seven people had clearance: the three department chairs, the vice chairs, the customs house commissioner, and Guildmistress Thubyrgeim.

The elevator finally game a smooth stop; the door opened with only a slight rattle. Synnove stepped out, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the change from the dim light of the lift to the shining luminescence of the final subbasement. She took a moment to enjoy the sight before her.

Subbasement twelve housed the aether batteries.

The seven primary batteries housed enormous clusters, one each for a different element; the seventh contained unaspected clusters and was the key to ensuring the other six remained in balance. These batteries, each the size of an aurochs, powered the new security systems, the new aether lighting systems they were still installing throughout the Gate, most of the containment units for the labs and storage facilities, and similar functions. The numerous lesser batteries held regular crystals, and were mostly used to provide assorted aether for experiments up in the labs, but should a primary battery go offline, they could (theoretically) be rerouted to act as emergency backup.

It wasn’t written anywhere official, if only because the Guild and the Admiral wanted to keep them secret for a while longer (and, really, they had no illusions that some Garlean or other foreign spy would eventually find out how the Gate generated so much of its own internal energy), but one of Synnove’s duties as Vice Chair included assisting in the aether batteries’ maintenance. Synnove wasn’t bothered by it, even enjoyed the time to herself. It made it even less likely that she would be bothered, and while it was mildly annoying not to have slate and chalk at hand with which to express her ideas, the work itself was simple enough she could let her mind wander back to the equations on her boards.

She swayed for a moment: the shielding on each battery meant she couldn’t _taste_ the aether contained within them, but she could still _hear_ it, and what a magnificent symphony it was. The drumming of earth, so deep she could almost feel it in her bones. The piping of wind, high and sweet like a flute. Fire’s bold brass and trumpets. Lightning’s gentle sparking like a viola one moment, a cello the next. The dual echoes of harp and piano swirling like an eddy in a tidepool. A gentle clarinet and a chiming of bright bells from ice. Even the unaspected aether hummed in tune, plain but important with its metronomic ticking.

Synnove forcibly yanked her mind back to the present and shook herself. And the Gate batteries had _nothing_ on what they had installed at the Range and the Farm! She made a mental note to tell the Guildmistress that checking for aether drunkenness or aether sickness should be added to the post-maintenance security protocols.

All right, to work. Synnove pulled on her pair of heavy leather gloves, and went to the first battery to see if any of the crystals inside needed replacing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had zero idea what to write for this so I just basically did worldbuilding headcanon. *shrug*


	5. Horizon's Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #4: Saving Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 4, 2018.

“If we get out of this alive,” Dancing Heron hissed, “we are _never_ taking one of your ‘shortcuts’ _ever again,_ do you hear me?”

Rereha nodded frantically and huddled closer to the Hellsguard’s side. “Yeah, sure, you betcha, I’m an idiot, _oh my gods it’s coming closer._ ”

“ _‘I know a shortcut between Black Brush and Horizon, it’ll be fine._ ’” Heron pitched her husky voice as high as it could go in imitation of Rereha, the tone of it dripping with derision.

“Holy shite, will you _please_ shut up?”

“And like absolute fucking fools, Synnove and I listen to you, and now we’ve fallen into a peiste nest and Synnove’s unconscious!”

“ _YOU ARE NOT HELPING._ ”

The desert peiste advancing on them took umbrage with Rereha’s tone of voice. The large scalekin draw its head back, hood flaring, and _HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSED._

Rereha and Heron screamed and clutched tightly on to one other.

Synnove suddenly sat up behind them, causing her friends to scream again in surprise. “Wha’ the _fuck_ happ’n’d?” she managed to slur out. She gingerly reached up to touch the back of her head, flinched, and dropped her hand into her lap. “Think ‘m concus- concussed.”

“That’s really the least of our worries right now!”

“Owwwww, Rere, not s’ lo—oh my gosh you’re a pretty baby!”

The other two teenagers paused. So did the peiste, cut off mid-hiss. All three turned to look at Synnove.

The hyur was staring right at the peiste and beaming. “Awww, you’re _really_ pretty! Such shiny scales!”

The peiste’s hood flattened a little. Rereha would swear later it was looking around in confusion. She knew _she_ had been.

Synnove shuffled out on her knees from behind her lalafell and roegadyn friends, holding out her hand. “Are you a boy or a girl? Either way, you’re so pretty, yes you are!”

“Synnove, what are you doing?” Heron gritted out from between her teeth. Rereha clung to Heron harder.

Synnove ignored her, cooing wordlessly with her hand still outstretched, the palm facing down.

Very, very slowly, the peiste inched closer, flicking its tongue out to scent the air. Heron and Rereha leaned back as far as they could, which wasn’t much, since the wall of the cave was almost right behind them. They both twitched as the peiste stretched out its long, long neck, hood only slightly flared, until—

It put the tip of its nose right beneath Synnove’s palm, and every so gently, pushed _up._

Synnove crooned.

Heron and Rereha’s jaws both dropped.

“What the everliving fucking _shite_ ,” Rereha said. Heron made a garbled noise in the back of her throat.

Their Highlander friend softly rubbed the peiste’s nose, and raised her other hand to just as softly run her fingers along its throat. “Awwww, you’re much softer than I thought you’d be!” she said. “And I _think_ you’re a girl, you don’t have the ridges along your eyes like the males do. I’m sorry, sweetheart, did we fall into your nest? Is this where you’re gonna lay your eggs?”

Rereha mouthed ‘eggs?!’ in utter horror. Heron closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose in resignation, opening her eyes again after a long moment.

The peiste let out a long breath, very much like a sigh, and slitted her eyes closed.

Synnove removed the hand she had been using to stroke the scalekin’s throat, raised it up, and gestured sharply with it.

Rereha blinked, confused, but Heron, as ever, understood and reacted immediately. She picked Rereha up under one arm and stood up in a crouch, carefully inching around Synnove and the charmed peiste. She snagged their packs with her free hand from where they had dropped them when the trio fell into the cave, having left them behind when the peiste had first begun advancing in favor of dragging the then-unconscious Synnove with her and Rereha.

The peiste opened her eye to _staaaaaaare_ at the Hellsguard as she passed. Heron quickly stilled, every muscle freezing and barely daring to breathe. She didn’t dare meet the peiste’s eyes at all, instead resolutely staring straight ahead. Rereha slapped her hands over her own eyes. They both gulped.

Synnove gave the scalekin’s nose a gentle scratch, drawing the creature attention back to herself again, and crooned a wordless tune. The peiste closed her eye and let out another of those long sighs.

Heron scrambled out of the cave, saying as she darted out of its mouth, “You and your _fucking_ shortcuts, Rereha, I swear to Thal.”

“Bitch me out later, keep _going!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Synnove, Heron, and Rereha are all probably around fifteen or sixteen here, likely shortly before or after Synnove was accepted to the Arcanists' Guild.
> 
> Synnove has low-grade empathy, which explains her knack with animals and why she's such a mother hen to the baby arcanists. The Echo... pretty much increased it three-fold. Of course, since Synnove (nor anyone else) had any idea she had some empathy abilities, everyone just thinks her ability to turn monsters into purring goo puddles is strictly an Echo-gift.


	6. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #5: Show of Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 5, 2018.

Synnove was still covered in a mostly fine coating of dust and ash when she trudged back to the Alliance bivouac, giving her the appearance of an All Saints’ Wake ghost as she stumbled between tents and half-heartedly dodged soldiers and support staff alike. However, it was Galette and Tyr to whom she tended first.

She had managed to find both a bucket of clear water and a quiet corner of the Maelstrom camp, far from the pained moans and screams of the wounded and dying in the care of the chirurgeons. In the shadow of a drooping Arcanists’ Guild banner, she sat down gracelessly, uncaring of the loud thump she made or one more sore spot on her aching body, and dipped a rag into the bucket. She rang it out, and began to clean Galette’s dusty fur, slowly but surely revealing the soft blue-green glow from under the grey. The carbuncle sat patiently, canting her head to make it easier to reach her ears, raising her front paws when requested, rolling onto her back to have her stomach and hind legs cleaned. Tyr sat loafed next to Synnove all the while, snug up against her leg, his comforting purr so deep it was soundless vibration as it sank into the very marrow of her bones.

Once Galette was clean to the carbuncle’s own satisfaction, she and Tyr switched places, Galette’s purr against her thigh a soft, thrumming chime. Synnove had to fetch a second bucket to finish washing Tyr, but once the last of the dust was removed from his trio of tails, he shown like spun gold in the weak sunlight.

(Sunlight. How long had it been since anyone had last seen it? Sennights? Moons? The sky was cloudless and almost painfully pale blue after so long overshadowed by purple clouds and sickly red light.)

Synnove didn’t even bother with the rag for herself: she simply dunked her head straight into the cool water. She kept her head in the bucket for a few long, worrying moments—Galette and Tyr exchanged nervous looks—before finally pulling out with a loud gasp and swiping her hair from her eyes. Galette made a worried noise and climbed onto her shoulders, draping herself around her summoner’s neck, and began trying to lick Synnove’s hair dry. Tyr shoved his upper body onto her lap, burying his face in her stomach, and took up his bone-rattling purr again.

They sat like that a for long time, carbuncles and hyur, with Synnove blankly staring at the side of the tent directly in front of her, hair dripping, arms limp, carbuncles purring to comfort themselves as much as their summoner. The sounds of the camp were muffled, as if heard through water, or coming from a great distance.

It had been bells since Synnove had last heard the land’s aether.

A commotion nearby eventually caught her attention. She wearily raised her head and looked to her left, Galette obliging flattening down so Synnove could see over her. A trio of soldiers from the Order of the Twin Adders stood in the clearing made by this circle of tents; their uniforms were as dusty and torn as everyone else’s, their shoulders as slumped, their faces as shocked and horrified and heartsore. The other arcanists here in this section of camp eyed them warily, some from around the campfire, others from their tents, and others, like Synnove, from wherever they had dropped to the ground in exhaustion.

“Arcanists of Limsa Lominsa,” the officer in the middle said, then stopped to clear his throat of dust. He was an elezen, tall even for one his tribe, and his skin might have been nut brown beneath the grey ash. He began again, “Arcanists of Limsa Lominsa, I know I have no right to ask this of you after your service during the battle, but ask I must. Elder Seedseer Kan-E-Senna has tasked her Adders with searching the battlefield for any survivors and seeing them brought safely back to the encampment. While we will gladly see to this duty, our numbers are few and stretched thin. Thus, we come in search of volunteers to both help us search the Flats, and to tend to the wounded. Can any of you provide assistance?”

For long moments, the arcanists processed the request, glancing at one another as they did. Synnove closed her eyes and took in a long, slow breath, then released it, just as slowly. She opened her eyes and looked down.

Galette, with the best nose in the whole of Mealvaan’s Gate.

Tyr, with the heart and strength of any full-grown Sea Wolf sailor.

They both stared at her, love and trust in their eyes, and chittered at her.

She was so unfathomably tired. She wanted to sleep for days and sob until there was nothing left in her breast but an aching numbness. She wanted to hide in her room or the comfort of Aunt Angharad’s hug. She wanted to _not be here any longer._

But she was an arcanist of Limsa Lominsa. She had a duty that yet needed fulfilling.

Synnove moved Tyr out of her lap and carefully climbed to her feet, placing her hand on his head when he immediately cuddled as close as he could. She swayed and shook herself, gently to minimize the discomfort to Galette, who merely snuggled deeper into her neck. She straightened her spine, drew back her shoulders, so that she stood as tall and proud as her aunt had taught her.

She stepped forward. “I’ll go,” she said, voice a cracking, hoarse croak, ruined from terrified screaming that had happened only bells ago but felt like years. She grimly met the eyes of the Serpent officer. “Search and rescue. I can do that. _We_ can do that: me and Galette and Tyr. We’ll go.”

Back to Carteneau.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me took five days to get to the Carteneau angst this challenge, instead of seven! :D


	7. Grenades and Dragonkillers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #6: The Steps of Faith (catch up day/writer's choice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 6, 2018.

**NORTHEAST TOWER, MEALVAAN’S GATE, LIMSA LOMINSA: SECOND YEAR OF THE SEVENTH UMBRAL ERA**

Synnove wrinkled her nose and leaned closer to the three-dimensional display of her new ruby carbuncle’s tertiary functions, examining it with a disbelieving eye. “Khebi-dear, not that I don’t admire your creativity and enthusiasm for developing high yield ordnance, but an _aethereal grenade_ subprogram? Really? He’s already bitey and a pyromaniac _without_ the added potential for extreme property damage and epic disaster.”

Khebi continued to scratch the three-day old carbuncle’s tummy; the carbuncle (and Synnove very much needed to find a name for him) purred furiously, paws curled up and tucked close, tails twitching in delight. The little arcanima prodigy said, “A grenade function could be useful! You never know when you might need the proper application of explosive force!” She beamed.

The elder arcanist looked up from the display, one eyebrow raised. “You did remember to include an off switch, yes?”

“…Yes?”

“ _A’khebica._ ”

“Oh, all _riiiiight._ ”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“I suppose that means I shouldn’t install the particle beam cannon protocols?” Her voice was hopeful despite the wording of the question.

The ruby carbuncle lifted his head to look at Synnove, ears perked.

“There will be absolutely _no_ particle beam cannons installed into any carbuncles, ruby or otherwise!”

Carbuncles could, in fact, push out their lower lip and pout like a small child. His and Khebi’s expressions were remarkably similar in that regard.

\---

**THE STEPS OF FAITH, ISHGARD, COERTHAS WESTERN HIGHLANDS: FIRST YEAR OF THE SEVENTH ASTRAL ERA**

_‘I am so very sorry right now that I didn’t let Khebi convince me to let her install that particle beam cannon function,’_ Synnove thought hysterically as she dashed toward the nearby tower, carrying Ivar under one arm. Galette and Tyr were with Heron, herding the smaller Dravanians into the kill zone of the Bertha cannons currently being manned by Rereha and Alakhai, the two carbuncles and the roegadyn paladin dashing around the feet of Vishap as the huge dragon advanced down the Steps of Faith. Adventurers and Temple Knights alike swarmed the dragon, too, slinging spells and swords and arrows alike into his hide and those of his kin, desperately trying to slow his progress. Roars and screams and shouts filled the air, and somewhere behind her, Synnove heard the _crash!_ of a mixed group of sellswords and knights ramming into the scaled hide of one of Vishap’s army.

Ivar was doing that mildly disconcerting carby cackle of his. Bloodthirsty brat.

Synnove dashed by one of the lines of Temple Knight archers that had arrived not long ago, shooting down any dragons attempting to rake the adventurers or grab one and send them on a one-way trip into the Sea of Clouds. “One of you,” she barked, lacing her voice with all the authority she was used to wielding as a Senior Assessor for the Gate, “with me, I’m going to need covering fire!”

A vaguely familiar knight peeled off from his fellows to follow her, but she didn’t have time to see just who, exactly, it was as she dodged around broken stone and patches of ice. She reached the tower and practically threw herself at the stairs, racing to the top, chest heaving and her legs burning. Armored feet clattered just behind her.

The tower was as tall as Vishap, who loomed ever closer with the way the great dragon carried his head atop his long, sinewy neck. The dragonkiller atop the edifice was already primed and loaded with a wickedly barbed harpoon. Synnove sent a silent prayer of thanks to Rhalgr and dropped to her knees next to the artillery piece, setting Ivar down as she did. The carbuncle vibrated with excitement, chattering loudly, as his summoner yanked a bottle of aetheric ink from a belt pouch.

“Twelve above, please don’t let me die today,” Synnove muttered, opening the bottle and dousing her hands with platinum ink. She tossed the now-empty bottle to the side, then clapped her hands twice. Two two-dimensional sigils sprung to life around them, one centered on each palm. “Ivar, stay _still._ ”

Ivar forcibly did as he was told, although he wasn’t quite able to completely stop his excited quivering as he looked up at her in bloodlust-induced delight. Synnove swore, took a deep breath, and plunged her hands down and _into_ him. They sunk past the thin layer of aether that formed the membrane keeping Ivar to the shape of a carbuncle, and into the swirling mass of delicate aethereal code contained within his fuzzy sides.

The knight behind her gasped. Synnove ignored him, wiggling her fingers experimentally, feeling arrays and sigils brush against her skin. Ivar giggled. _Tickles, Mama!_

“Sorry, boyo. All right, so far so good, now _where is that damned protocol._ ” The arcanist furrowed her brow, leaning further into the subspace pocket until she was up to her elbows in carbuncle. She ran her fingers over the shape of one array, swore again, shoved it the side, sorted through others. She kept sinking further in.

“Where is it where is it where is it where is it where is it—”

The _swish_ of a loosened arrow sang behind her, then another almost immediately after the first. Ivar bared his teeth at something over her shoulder and _snarled_ , cruel and violent. Two meaty _thwacks!_ rang out, then the rushing roar of flame, and a dragon screamed in pain and rage before it presumably plummeted from the sky.

“—where is it where is it where is it where is it where is it where is it FOUND IT!”

Synnove cupped her hands around the tertiary array, running her thumbs over the edge of it. The right line of code should be—there!

She flipped the switch from ‘off’ to ‘on.’

Ivar _cackled._

Synnove yanked her arms out of her carbuncle, his sides rippling before settling back into place as the appearance and texture codes reasserted themselves, and gathered Ivar up as she got to her feet. She planted a smacking kiss on his forehead and dropped him on the end of the dragonkiller’s loaded harpoon. “Give him hell, honey,” she said.

Ivar yipped at her. _Will do, Mama!_ He hunkered down, wrapping his paws around the harpoon, looking absolutely demonic as he began cackling again.

She darted around to the other end of the dragonkiller, grabbing its guidance handles and swinging it around to bring it to bare on Vishap. She took a deep breath as she lined up the sights with the right side of the enormous dragon’s head.

She fired.

Harpoon and carbuncle both arced through the air, Ivar’s carby war cry ringing out across the Steps. They impacted Vishap’s head, and-

#  **_BOOM!_ **

****

Raw aether ripped through the air: smoke and flames leapt from the impact site. Synnove ducked as the shockwave slammed into her, tightening her grip on the dragonkiller to keep from being bowled over, wheezing a little before peering over the artillery piece. Vishap had stopped in his tracks, roaring and shaking his head, rearing up and beating his wings. Smaller dragons currently in the air went tumbling from the turbulence, shrieking in surprise, while the defenders and some of the flightless wyrms scattered to avoid his forelimbs when he brought them down with a _CRASH!_ When the smoke cleared, his right horn was gone and blood poured from where his right eye had once been.

A raucous cheer went up from the adventurers and Temple Knights below.

“By the Fury!”

Synnove blinked. That was the knight who had climbed the tower with her. She knew that voice.

She turned, and blinked again as she took in the sight of Ser Aymeric in rather plainer armor than she was used to seeing, wonderous awe on his handsome face. He still had his blue sword at his hip, but he carried the monstrous yew longbow in his hand with the obvious ease of long familiarity with the weapon. The gloves and sabatons were familiar, at least, and the lack of the familiar blue and gold surcoat in favor of Temple Knight mail made sense: it made him much less of an obvious target.

Lucia had been leading the defense of the Steps, so Synnove had assumed Ser Aymeric was either occupied on another front or, more likely, readying the defenses of the city itself should the Dravanians make it across the bridge. He had arrived with the company of archers when the dragons began strafing the adventurers to provide much needed covering fire, which likely meant the city was as ready as it could be, and presumably had left overall command of the battle to his second to avoid confusion or contradictory orders. Why _he_ had come with her, instead of sending one of his subordinates, was something she couldn’t fathom at, however.

Synnove shook her head, forcing herself back into the present. Now was not the time to be speculating on Ishgardian command decisions! Get it together, girl!

The ruby foci on her bracelet tingled against her skin, and with a _pop!_ of displaced air, Ivar rematerialized at her feet. He bounced excitedly in place, chattering happily. _Again, Mama! Again, again!_

Synnove would have responded to her youngest’s obvious cheer, but Vishap took that moment to finish reorienting himself, swinging his head around to glare with his remaining eye.

Right.

At.

_Her._

Fire pooled at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, _fu_ —” she began to swear. It was cut off, however, by her yelp of surprise as Aymeric slammed into her and brought them both to the ground at the far edge of the tower, rolling them onto the stairs, Aymeric on top of her and herself on top of Ivar.

Ivar’s outraged shrieking was muffled by both his summoner’s body and the roar of dragonflame above them. _LET ME AT HIM, MAMA! I’M GONNA KILL HIM! LET ME AT HIM I’LL SHOW HIM WHAT FIRE CAN **REALLY** DO!_

“Ivar, be _silent!_ ”

The ruby carbuncle subsided with a grumble.

When the gout of fire finally ceased, and the stone shook with the echoes of Vishap’s ponderous steps, Synnove and Aymeric cautiously sat up, Synnove holding a wriggling Ivar tightly to her chest. The tower rampart was scorched black, still smoking in some parts. And the dragonkiller…

The dragonkiller was melted slag, superheated to the point the molten metal was still glowing bright red and oozing sluggishly as it settled into place, smoke and steam rising into the air.

“Oh, that’s bringing back some not-great memories about the Bowl of Embers,” Synnove said, her grip on Ivar turning white-knuckled. “And Carteneau. And the Praetorium.”

“Rather par for the course in Ishgard these days, I’m afraid,” Aymeric said, voice wry and only a little bit shaky.

They exchanged identical wide-eyed looks of disbelief ( _how the hell did we get out of this one? dumb luck._ ) and laughed softly.

(Ivar narrowed his eyes at the Lord Commander, and gave a subvocal growl.)

Aymeric inclined his head to the carbuncle in her arms once they regained their composure. “Would the two of you by chance be able to do that again?”

Synnove grinned wolfishly at him. “Oh, I think we can manage that and more.” Ivar chittered agreement, his tails lashing in excitement.

“Fantastic,” Aymeric said, his answering smile just as fierce as Synnove’s.

The Lord Commander got to his feet and extended his hand to her. The arcanist grasped it and got her own feet under herself, leveraging herself up as Aymeric pulled. Synnove resettled Ivar on her hip, Aymeric retrieved his longbow, and together they raced down the tower, and on to the next dragonkiller embankment.

“Galette, Tyr! On me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so, since it's never really made clear where Ser Aymeric is during the Steps of Faith (as Lucia leads the Temple Knights on the bridge itself), but my brain said, "MAKE IT SHIPPY!" while writing this, I plopped Aymeric in. The section of his "reveal" is actually a significant rewrite of the original on Tumblr, as at the time I was under a time limit and wasn't able to close the plot hole I created of _how and why he was there_ to my satisfaction.
> 
> Also, yes, this is in fact the scenario referenced in [Reactions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883359/chapters/29720619) from FFXIVwrite2017 last year. :3


	8. Spindle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #7: Serendipitous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 7, 2018.

At the time, Angharad hadn’t thought much of the request.

“Aunt Angharad?” Synnove had asked so quietly, Angharad had had to lean over to better hear the little seven-year old. “Rereha has mathematics tutoring tomorrow. May I go with her?”

Angharad can’t remember the reason why she had agreed; busy with something, in a way that having her precocious niece under foot would have made more troublesome, and just two years after the remaining members of the Greywolfe family had fled Ala Mhigo, there were many things that had required Angharad’s attention and not enough bells in the day to see to them all. All she remembered about that day is that she _had_ agreed. Rereha’s parents, after all, had given their blanket permission for their daughter’s new companion to accompany Rereha wherever and whenever she wished, and Synnove had attended the music and geography and poetry tutoring sessions without complaint and even some enjoyment.

That night, Synnove had returned home with a little case of graphite styli, a thick workbook of mathematics problems Angharad had only much later discovered were usually for first-year university students, and a fire in her eyes Angharad had never before seen.

And look where that fire had eventually brought her niece.

Gone was the quiet, nervous, painfully shy child hoping for a moment of her parents’ attention. The Synnove Greywolfe of today stood tall and proud, shoulders back and head high, prowling before the committee as she presented her thesis on the aetherodynamic properties of aetheric infusion of carbuncle quality summoning foci. Every question she received, she fielded with confidence and poise; no hesitations, only surety.

(Never mind that a bell past, Dancing Heron had been coaching her through breathing exercises to keep her from hyperventilating.)

Angharad beamed with pride from her seat in the gallery. On her right, her brother-in-law watched his daughter’s thesis defense with his mouth agape, awed despite the fact he probably only understood one word in twenty. (Not that Angharad was in any better a position to comprehend advanced arcanima, but she had been listening to Synnove happily chatter technobabble at her for much, much longer than Havardr had; _she_ at least understood every one word in ten!) On her left, Synnove’s advisor, Mhaslona Fhilfhiswyn, wore the grin of a hungry shark about to make a kill, taking obvious delight in her student talking circles around her colleagues. On Mhaslona’s other side, Rereha, Heron, and Alakhai sat huddled, passing a bowl of popped millioncorn amongst themselves and muttering commentary. Galette and Tyr peered through the railings of the bannister separating the gallery from the presentation floor, ears twitching and tails thumping excitedly against Angharad’s feet (and shins, in the case of Tyr’s tail trio).

Every time Synnove turned and she could catch her niece’s eye, Angharad smiled even more brightly, holding two thumbs up. Synnove always grinned to match her without pausing her defense.

Strange how Nymeia wove Her tapestries, but who was Angharad to argue with the results?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this is the first appearance of Synnove's father, Havardr, outside of headcanon posts!
> 
> Timeline note: roughly a year before Carteneau.


	9. Earthen Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #8: Crag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 8, 2018.

Synnove beamed as Tyr trotted back to her. “ _Good_ boy!” she said as he sat at her feet.

Tyr _boof_ ed, chest puffing out with pride. She leaned down to smoosh his face between her hands and kiss him right between the eyes. Her big sweetheart thrummed happily, back leg thumping against the ground.

So far, the tests for the Titan-egi subprogram had gone spectacularly well. It was a shame Y’mhitra hadn’t been able to make it for this set of tests like she had with Galette’s Garuda-egi subprogram, but Tyr’s internal aetheric sensors would provide some excellent raw data, and Keltgeim had volunteered to come along to record their visual observations. Starling had ended up joining them as they had left the Gate that morning, too, shrugging absently at their inquiring gazes. Well, the more, the merrier.

They were, of course, on the Range in the northernmost part of Middle La Noscea. They were staying close to the western edge of the Range, along the cliffs; a few other experiments were scheduled for other areas of the aetherophysics department’s testing site. It was a warm spring day, and the sound of crashing waves far below made a rhythmic counterpoint to all the aether humming around them.

There was one final test to run for the day. The abilities unique to Titan-egi had mapped very well with Tyr’s own combat capabilities, but _Enkindle_ was another, much trickier matter, directly drawing on the elemental power embodied in the originating primal. It had taken some tweaking to get the _Enkindle_ commands to properly map through Galette’s aetheric channels and activate _Aerial Blast_ , for example. Synnove had drawn on that experience when setting up Tyr’s subprogram, but each of her carbuncles were unique, and she expected she would likely need to do some more work on at least rejiggering his Shotamian manifold to get everything to line up as it should. 

Synnove stood back up, eyeing the angle of sunlight. Midafternoon; plenty of time to get this test started, possibly reconfigure as needed, and get another attempt in before packing up for the day. She grinned and cracked her knuckles.

“Ready over there?” she called out.

Keltgeim waved from her position about forty yalms off. Starling stood next her, a shock of pale hair and red tunic next to the dark grey Sea Wolf.

Synnove gave Tyr’s ears a scritch, “On with you, laddie boy,” she crooned.

The topaz carbuncle rubbed his cheek against her hip, stood up, and bounded back to the targets that had been set up for the tests.

Once he was in position, Synnove took her grimoire off her hip, letting it fall open in her hand and flicking rapidly to the right pages. She removed her conduit stylus from her belt and held it poised above the spell sigils that would activate _Enkindle._ “Going on three!”

“Copy!”

“Three! Two! One!”

Synnove pressed stylus to sigil.

Tyr made a deep growling noise, braced his paws, and unleashed _Earthen Fury._

A circle of glowing golden earth aether, centered on Tyr, spread out to a ten yalm diameter. Loose stones levitated at the edges of the circle, and the targets shook and rocked; one fell over entirely. In the corner of her mind, Synnove could hear the distant crash of shrieking metal and the singing of stone she associated with the aether deep in the heart of O’Ghomoro, at Titan’s altar.

The spell faded out, and Synnove lifted her stylus from the page and snapped her grimoire closed, grinning widely. She knelt down and caught up Tyr as the carbuncle threw himself at her in his own excitement. He chuffed and panted happily as Synnove scratched his neck and chest. “Goooood boy, such a good boy!” she said.

Keltgeim and Starling trotted up to them, the latter stoic as always and Keltgeim smiling. “I’d say that went pretty well!” Kelt said, reaching down to give Tyr’s ears a rub.

Synnove grinned wider, and opened her mouth to reply—

A loud **_CRACK!_** to the north rang out.

All four of their heads whipped around.

At the northern most point of the Middle La Noscean coastline, near the Foremast, a plume of rock and soil flew skyward. The heavy **_CRACKING_** sound drew closer, disturbed earth flying up as it raced toward and then eventually by them, about five fulms away from the edge of the cliff. All of them turned to watch it continue south, tracking its progress by the flying plumes of dirt, Synnove standing to watch with her hands over her mouth, until it reached the Descent, bisecting the northern third of the region from the rest of Middle La Noscea, some miles away.

For ten heartbeats, everything was still and eerily quiet. Then wth a loud **_ROAR_** of displaced earth, the entire northernmost portion of the Middle La Noscean cliffside collapsed into the sea, sending out a large wave that almost immediately began flooding Limsa Lominsa’s Lower Decks and throwing the aquatic traffic of the smaller boats moving between the various docks and quays into chaos. The great deeper hulled dreadnaughts of the navy weren’t exempt from the trouble, either; the _Triumph_ and the ships of her squadron heaved in their berths at Barracuda Pier.

Synnove still stood with her hands over her mouth, eyes huge. Tyr pressed himself into the ground as flat as he could, paws over his eyes, whining in distress. Keltgeim’s notebook and pencil had fallen out of her hands as the Sea Wolf stared, slack-jawed. Starling put her chin in her hand, a thoughtful gleam in her eyes.

“…That was interesting,” the white-haired miqo’te said. “Can you do that again?”

“Absolutely _NOT!_ ” Keltgeim said, pivoting to glare down at her. “My granny’s cabin is near here!”

Starling shrugged. “We can move.”

Synnove made a moaning sound deep in her chest as she collapsed to her knees next to her carbuncle. “Oh,” she said finally, “oh this is emphatically not good.”

There were a few moments of silence as they watched the distant chaos along the docks. The wave generated was still cresting, though at least heading out to sea. Hopefully the fishing fleet was south or north today, and not _west._

Finally:

“The Admiral is going to personally keelhaul you.” Keltgeim’s tone was as ruthlessly unsympathetic as her choice of words. “She’s going to draw you from the new _Victory_ ’s stern to its bow and she will do it with a smile.”

“Yeah,” Synnove sadly said, “yeah, she is.”

“And Thubyrgeim is going to slash your funding.”

Synnove closed her eyes and made that awful moaning noise again. “Yeah. Yeah, she is.”

Tyr let out another sad _whiiiiiiiiine._ Synnove leaned over and hugged him. “Aw, honey, it’s not your fault,” she said. He shuffled around until he could press his face into her stomach, continuing to make distressed noises as Synnove petted and shushed him.

Starling titled her head as she turned to face the northern most point of the Middle La Noscean coast, slowly turning in a half circle until she looked due south, taking in the line of unintended destruction. “Do you think,” she said at last, slowly drawing out her words, “that the Admiral will finally agree to give the aetherophysics department their own testing island like the ‘chem bastards have?”

Synnove sat up, blinking as she processed the idea. She and Keltgeim shared contemplative looks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keltgeim Eyristyrwyn (belonging to tehjai on Tumblr) and Starling Nightsong (belonging to wanderedaimlessly on Tumblr) are two of the members of my FC and are used here with permission!
> 
> For the record, Admiral Merlwyb didn't agree to move the Range out to an island like where the chem department's Farm is until the Aetherostatic Chalk Dust Collector Incident. Spite, it's a powerful motivator.


	10. Weft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #9: Dense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 9, 2018.

Knit, knit through the back loop, bring the yarn forward, purl, bring the yarn to the back. Knit, knit through the back loop, bring the yarn forward, purl, bring the yarn to the back. Knit, knit through the back loop, bring the yarn forward, purl, bring the yarn to the back.

Repeat until one stitch remained; knit.

Begin the next row.

Even if the interrupted sleep made the next morning a pain in the ass, second watch was Heron’s favorite. The night was often still and soft, with only the crackle of the campfire, and perhaps the chirping of crickets in late summer, to keep her company while her friends slept.

A loud snore broke her reverie.

Heron rolled her eyes fondly in the direction of Rereha’s bedroll. Contrary even in her sleep.

She turned half her attention back to her current knitting project, the rest on the shadows beyond the reach of the fire.

The trick to staying awake, as her Granny Diving Hawk always said, was to keep your hands occupied. Nothing so complicated that it required all your attention, because that’s how coyotes or bandits or Brass Blades snuck up on you and yours, but just enough to keep your mind interested. Granny had knit, and taught Heron; Gramps did incredible things with copper wire and a pair of pliers; Mama did cross-stitch; Uncle Roaring Coeurl whittled.

This particular pattern was a favorite of hers. It was a simple one row repeat that created a thick, warm fabric with an interesting appearance no matter the yarn, and was easy enough to adjust. The original she’d been taught called for two knit stitches before knitting through the back loop, but this variation with just one knit stitch insured the resulting ribs were closer together. She already had a fulm and a half of scarf knitted, laying heavy in her lap, with roughly one hundred and fifty yalms of yarn still left with which to work. She’d likely finish it within the next few nights of watches.

The question remained of who would end up wearing the finished product…

Another sudden snore.

_‘Probably Rere,’_ Heron thought with another roll of her eyes. For all that the Dunesfolk lady began complaining about the cold the second she set foot beyond the dust of Thanalan, the idiot was constantly losing her hats and scarves, if she remembered to pack them at all. (Although, to be fair, sometimes she also just annoyed Alakhai to the point where the Xaela stole her stuff in retaliation.)

At least Rere had the decency to buy Heron the _nice_ yarn as an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, would you look at that: a ficlet from Heron's POV!


	11. Death Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #10: Coward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 10, 2018.

Rereha’s dark brown skin acquired a grey cast. If her pupils had been visible, they would have been pinpricks. “We are going to die.”

Alakhai stared in utter horror and nodded.

Synnove’s stash of premium coffee beans sat on her desk. Well. What was left of them.

Because they now were a smoking heap of ash.

Because Rereha decided she wanted to prank Synnove. With sparklers. High grade, premium, ceruleum-enhanced, Ul’dahn sparklers, because of course plain blackpowder ones were too gauche for her.

And Rereha thought hiding them in **_SYNNOVE’S COFFEE_** was a fine idea. And not just _any_ coffee, noooo. No, it had been the Super Premium New World Dark Roast High Caffeine _Death Wish_ coffee the Guild claimed first purchase rights on, reserved for the exclusive use of its highest-ranking members, and didn’t even let the fourth-year students _sniff_ or the first-years to _know about in the first place._

(And like some _tulee_ Oronir, she’d gone along with the idea. Why. _Why._ )

And, of course, the sparklers had gone off far too early.

And now **_the coffee was GONE._**

_They were so swiving dead._

The twinkling chime of a _Return_ spell charging up caught Alakhai’s attention, and the Xaela whirled to face Rereha, rage contorting her features. “ _REREHA REHA, YOU YELLOW BELLIED, LILY LIVERED, JELLY SPINED GICHII—”_

Rereha gave her a double-fingered salute, and with a _pop!_ of blue aether, was gone.

The tower stairs creaked, and the tread told Alakhai _everything_ she needed to know about who was going to be in the office within the next few moments with her. Alone. With the ruined coffee in open view.

No time to teleport, either, not if she wanted Synnove to catch her red-handed.

So, she did the only thing she could, if she wanted to live to see another dawn.

She dashed to the window, threw it open, crawled out onto the ledge, and leaped from the top of the northeast tower of the Arcanists’ Guild and into the harbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never touch Synnove's coffee.
> 
> _**NEVER. TOUCH. SYNNOVE'S. COFFEE.** _


	12. Cannonball!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #11: Chores (Catch Up Day/Extra Credit/Writer's Choice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 11, 2018.

The Thanalan sun beat down on the sprawling estates of the Goblet, a haze of heat blurring the lines of the surrounding mountains. In the southeastern corner of the fifth ward, overshadowed by their neighbor’s imposing manor, the Seekers free company were busy with chores around the company house.

Most of the membership was inside, tending to the various needs there: repairs in the workshop, tidying the study spaces, re-shelving books in the library, scrubbing down the kitchen, restocking the labs. The largest of the outside chores had been finished early in the day, before the heat turned oppressive: cleaning the windows, tending the garden of carefully cultivated tomatoes and tea leaves, mucking out the stables, checking the roof for any needed repairs. The last ones were still being finished.

Nemene was giving the fence a fresh coat of paint: brilliant Dalamud red, in honor of the upcoming holidays. The Raen’s hair was tied back and tucked under a kerchief, her hand steady as she drew the paintbrush down the wood. She sat cross-legged on a long, wheeled scaffolding plank, the paint can on it beside her as well as spare brushes and rags. Once she was done with a section of fence, she simply pushed herself along the ground to a new one with only the barest creak of the wheels.

Keltgeim sat at the firepit, surrounded by numerous mason jars and pots of various fruits, vegetables, meats, and fish. She kept a careful eye on a set of four sealed jars currently in the simmering pot on the fire. At a yip from her tiny ruby carbuncle, Jarvis, the Sea Wolf used a long hook to swing the pot out from the fire and carefully remove each jar with a hand covered by a heavy heat-proof glove. Once the freshly canned fruits had been set aside, new ones full of vegetables were put into the pot, and swung back out onto the fire.

Starling was hanging laundry. She had to stand on a step ladder to reach the height of the line, but she had settled into a rhythm. Hang whichever item it was (a blanket, a towel, a pair of pants), climb down, kick the ladder to the next spot down the line, gather up an item from the laundry basket and a few more pins from the basket held by her own ruby carbuncle, Tarak, climb the ladder, hang the item, repeat.

The afternoon was peaceful and quiet.

The front door opened with a **_BANG!_**

Five heads swiveled around to look.

Synnove strode outside in her striped white-and-blue two-piece swimsuit. A diver’s belt hung on her hips, two of the weights replaced by pouches; a scrubbing brush poked out from one. She walked grimly towards the pond at the edge of the yard, the water within it much deeper than it appeared at first glance.

A struggling Ivar was frantically wriggling in her arms, but Synnove’s grip was iron. He started screeching the closer they got to the water.

_MY LINE IS ENDED! AVENGE ME!_

Jarvis blinked owlishly, canting his head to the side. Tarak huffed around the handle of the laundry pin basket. Their respective summoners started cackling. Nemene, looking over the fence, merely smirked.

“Oh, hush, you giant drama queen,” Synnove groused. The final paces to the pond, she took a running leap, and cannonballed in, sinking beneath the surface and cutting off her youngest’s outraged yells. Water splashed from the pond, and steam billowed upward.

Galette and Tyr bounded out of the house, skidding to a halt next to the edge of the pond, and hunkered down gleefully.

Synnove surfaced, spitting out water. She had the handle of the brush clenched between her teeth and was holding a bar of soap (likely fetched from another pouch), which she rubbed against Ivar’s fur. She set the soap aside, removed the brush from her mouth, and began scrubbing the top of Ivar’s head. “How did you even get into the airship engine block, you absolutely filthy creature,” she grumbled.

Ivar’s ears were pinned to his head and he was growling.

Galette and Tyr laughed at him.

Ivar growled louder. _Vengeance!_

“If you set anything on fire as a way of obtaining your ‘vengeance,’ there will be no bacon for an entire _moon._ ”

Ivar stopped growling, although he didn’t unpin his ears. His siblings laughed harder, and Jarvis and Tarak joined them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keltgeim Eyristyrwyn and Jarvis belong to @tehjai, Starling Nightsong and Tarak belong to @wanderedaimlessly, and Nemene Boann belongs to @redhawkfg; all were used with permission!


	13. Feud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #12: Accolade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 12, 2018.

Radz-at-Han at midsummer was a humid, disgusting mess.

The University, one of the city’s crown jewels, had been especially constructed with this mind, its stone arches and hallways designed by clever architects to keep the interior cool and fresh air moving. Normally, its buildings and courtyards would be ringing with the excited chattering and quick-moving footsteps of students, particularly during a well-attended academic conference.

Instead, it was as silent as a lichyard.

In the central Grand Auditorium, the conference attendees had gathered. Thavnairians dominated the crowd, students of the University of Radz-at-Han and other colleges from around the island nation. A contingent from Garlemald—both from the Imperial capital and various conquered provinces—sat on the left side of the great hall. A Hingan delegation sat roughly in the middle, among the Thavnairians, along with an entire row of Sharlayans. On the right side of the auditorium sat the Eorzeans: primarily members of Limsa Lominsa’s Arcanists’ Guild, but a number of Ul’dahn thaumaturges sat with them, as well as a small party of Gridanian conjurers, including their Padjal Guildmaster, E-Sumi-Yan.

The Garleans and Hingans watched the proceedings with vague confusion. The Thavnairians were a mix of various disgusted, pale, and smug individuals. The Sharlayans were stone-faced, but radiated disapproval.

The Eorzeans’ simmering anger was palpable.

The Highlander next to the Arcanists’ Guildmistress sat ramrod straight in her chair, hands on the armrests in a white-knuckled grip. Her expression promised violent, bloody murder. The Guildmistress herself had a firm grip on the Highlander’s bicep, likely to keep her from doing something rash, though her own face was just a few shades less furious.

The Chancellor of the University of Radz-at-Han stood from his own seat, flanked by the other university officers, on the stage and came right to the edge at the very center. Here, the acoustics of the auditorium would let him be heard by everyone in the vaulted room without him raising his voice beyond that of a conversational tone.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and other esteemed colleagues,” he said, voice resigned and weary, “on behalf of the University of Radz-at-Han, I thank you for attendance at our conference and for the week of spirited debate and shared knowledge. As part of our closing, we present the award for Most Outstanding Theoretical Paper to one of the attendees.”

He paused briefly as a growl arose from the arcanists. The wooden armrests of more than a few seats, not just the enraged Highlander’s and not just among the Eorzeans, creaked ominously. He said nothing, merely dipped his chin ever so slightly in their direction. The hyur wasn’t that old, but he clearly looked as if he had aged a decade.

“Today, I present the award to a scion of one of the founders of this great University—“

Translation: _This was purely political or my school and students would have lost all patronage and scholarship funding._

“—for his writing on the aetherodynamic properties of infusing gemstones with living aether—“

Translation: _His writing, not his work._

“Bahram Zarir.”

A smattering of polite applause game from the Thavnairian, Hingan, and Garlean sections as a tall, olive-skinned hyur with an impeccably groomed black moustache and hair and fine clothing stood from his seat in the front row and ascended the stage. He came to stand next to the Chancellor, looking out among the assembled scholars with glittering eyes, though he quite obviously refused to look in the direction of the Eorzeans. He would have been handsome, if his smile had been less a sneer.

“Thank you, Chancellor,” he said. “It is an honor—”

He abruptly clicked his mouth shut, and stared.

E-Sumi-Yan had stood up, his conjurers half a beat behind him. Together, with the Padjal in the lead, the conjurers exited the row they sat in, descended the auditorium stairs, and walked in front of the stage to the auditorium exit. They said nothing and made no eye contact as they left, but the message was clear.

The Hingans and Garleans murmured amongst their respective groups, eyeing the stage thoughtfully. A few of the Hannish students slid down into their seats, as if to hide; shame colored many faces.

Zarir regained his composure and sniffed disdainfully. “As I was saying, it is an honor to be so named—”

The rustle of rising people was louder this time: the thaumaturges of Ul’dah. Only one of their guildmasters had traveled with them to Radz-at-Han, but for all his diminutive stature, Cocobuki Lolobuki lacked none of the assertiveness displayed just a few moments ago by his counterpart from Gridania. He held his head high as he led his thaumaturges from the auditorium, but unlike E-Sumi-Yan, as he passed the stage, he shot Zarir a disdainful glare, though he and his were just as silent.

Whispering began to spread, the Hingans and Garleans asking their Thavnairian neighbors in low tones about just what was happening.

When the last of the Ul’dahns left, Zarir cleared his throat, but this time he didn’t get a chance to begin his acceptance speech again.

The Limsans _and_ the Sharlayans stood.

The whispers among the rest of the crowd took on a rushed, fevered pitch. Some of the university officers on stage began shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

The members of the Arcanists’ Guild stared in surprise; the Sharlayans looked back resolutely. Finally, after a few long moments, Guildmistress Thubyrgeim smiled grimly and gestured to her Sharlayan counterpart. He dipped his head to her in acknowledgment.

Unlike both the conjurers and thaumaturges, the Sharlayan scholars had no qualms sharing their opinions as they filed by the stage. “Disgraceful.” “Pathetic.” “Setting the field back years.” “ _Plagiarist._ ”

Gasps started echoing from the Hingan and Garlean sections, and the whispers became loud muttering.

Zarir’s face began turning an interesting shade of purple. The Chancellor stood stone-faced with his hands behind his back, but not once did he attempt to defend himself or the man in his employee. If anything, the Chancellor’s eyes glittered with satisfaction.

Then, finally, it was the Limsans’ turn.

Like their Gridanian and Ul’dahn brethren, they said nothing. Like the Sharlayans, they were nonetheless quick to share their opinions. The first arcanist to pass Bahram Zarir was a grizzled Sea Wolf man so tall that he was of height with Zarir on the stage. He paused a moment, glared at him, and spat at Zarir’s feet.

His action set the tone for the rest of the delegation. Most of the following arcanists did the same—or just spat directly on Zarir. The shorter members of the contingent hurled overripe or outright rotten fruit at Zarir’s feet until his shoes were a mess. Roegadyn, elezen, lalafell, miqo’te, hyur: each and every one showed their displeasure in some way.

The Chancellor wasn’t standing far away enough away to avoid his own shoes being caught in some of the splatter, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, now he was smirking.

__

Guildmistress Thubyrgeim stopped in front of Zarir and stared at him. She held out a piece of heavy parchment and opened her hand, letting it drift to the damp stage floor.

_ By the authority granted to me by the Thalassocracy of Limsa Lominsa under Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn, I, Thubyrgeim Guldweitzwyn, Mistress of the Arcanists’ Guild at Mealvann’s Gate, do hereby decree on this, the Fourteenth Sun of the Third Astral Moon of the Second Year of the Seventh Umbral Era, that the Degree in Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Aetherophysics granted to Bahram Zarir is **REVOKED.** _

**__ **

Guildmistress Thubyrgeim clasped her hands in front of herself, bowed to the Chancellor, and strode from the auditorium.

Finally, Synnove Greywolfe was the only one left.

She did not say anything. She did not spit. She did not throw anything.

The only thing she did was to look Bahram Zarir in the eye and draw her finger across her throat.

When she left, the silence was deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first proper appearance of Bahram Zarir! And yep. He plagiarized her _thesis._


	14. Childhood Delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #13: Results

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 13, 2018.

Aymeric entered the house, taking a deep, appreciative breath as he did. The scent of warm rolanberries—made into a compote, perhaps?—hung thick and rich in the air. Well, that certainly explained the emerald carbuncle plastered to the outside of the kitchen window and oblivious to everything around her.

  
He closed the front door behind him, giving the heavy oak a firm shove with his shoulder, as it didn’t quite sit straight on its hinges since the last time Tyr burst his way into the house. The _thump_ was enough to finally draw Synnove’s attention from whatever magick it was she was concocting, and she poked her head around the kitchen partition, smiling brightly when she saw him. Her hair was swept up and pinned into a series of crown braids she typically only wore when she cooked or baked. “Hello, love!” she said. “You have excellent timing.”

  
Aymeric gave her his customary bow as he dropped his travel pack by the coatrack. “I aim to please, my lady,” he said, winking as he straightened up again. Synnove giggled and ducked back into the kitchen.

He took his bow off his shoulder and hung it carefully from one of the pegs of the weapons rack next to the front door, then did the same with his sword. Finally, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the coatrack, before striding into the kitchen. His first impulse, as it always was whenever it had been too long since they had last been together, was to come up behind Synnove and wrap his arms around her, but a quick glance about quickly put an end to _that_ thought. While the pot of sweetly tart rolanberry compote was set aside on the counter, the large, deep pan on the stove was full of no-doubt hot oil, likely safflower or cottonseed from the lack of odor. The two of them had _Rules_ about displays of affection around hot stoves or sharp knives.

(Thank all the gods for the _Physick_ spell and Synnove’s rudimentary skills in conjury.)

Instead, he slid into a seat at the center island, across from Synnove’s workspace. She was measuring out portions of a soft, sticky dough on a marble pastry board liberally dusted with flour. There were two sizes, organized so that one of the small portions was next to a large one.

Aymeric propped his head on his hand. “What delicious delights are you baking today?”

“ _Papanaşi_ ,” Synnove said as she rolled the smaller portions of dough into tight balls. She pronounced the word as _papanash._ “It’s a traditional Gyr Abanian dessert, primarily from the northern villages deep in the Spine. A cheese doughnut, essentially. There’s a recipe currently making the rounds through the Adventurers’ Guild.”

Aymeric smiled and said, “Something tells me this _isn’t_ that exact recipe, though.”

His ladylove glanced up with a devious little grin. “Of course it’s not.” She winked and began rolling out one of the larger apportioned piles of dough into a rough log shape, then deftly brought the ends together to form a doughnut.

“Yours is better, of course.”

“Of course!” Synnove’s grin was downright wicked. “This recipe is Aunt Angharad’s.”

“ _And_ with the proper ingredients.”

“As if I’d bake them with anything else,” she said with a disdainful sniff, but she was grinning as they wrapped up their typical _repartee_ whenever she broke out the baked goods. “I’ll admit, the version the culinarians are sharing isn’t bad at all, and the cheese they’re using is a respectable substitute.”

“But?” Aymeric said, drawing the word out with a grin to match her own.

“But it’s a Steppe cheese. And this particular batch of cheese Aunt Angharad shared with me came from one of those northern Spine villages. The one Auntie’s family hails from, in fact.” Synnove’s face glowed with happiness. “I haven’t had _papanaşi_ this way since before the invasion.” She whipped her head around to stare out the window, expression suddenly an angry scowl. “And I would have had it sooner had someone _not eaten the entire first batch!_ ”

Galette made a pathetic chiming warble, face and front paws smooshed against the window.

Synnove gave the carbuncle one last scowl before turning back to rolling out the doughnuts.

Aymeric snickered into his palm.

He watched quietly but avidly as she worked, shaping doughnuts and smaller balls. Once she had finished, she brought the tray over to the stove, and began carefully sliding in two doughnuts and two doughnut balls into the oil at a time. A careful flip at the halfway point to ensure everything cooked evenly, and after five minutes, the first batch was carefully retrieved with a slotted spoon and set on a wire rack to cool and drain the excess oil. She set each ball on top of a doughnut, right in the round opening, and then proceeded to begin frying the next pairs.

As the third batch fried up, and the second drained, Synnove took the first two doughnuts and set them on individual plates. She dressed each set of doughnuts with generous dollops of something called _smetana_ —“bit like a much thicker, richer sour cream, very popular condiment in Gyr Abania for sweet _and_ savory dishes”—and the rolanberry compote, and handed him a fork and knife. The doughnuts were _large._

Synnove suddenly looked a bit nervous. “I do hope they came out all right,” she said, turning quickly to fish the third batch of _papanaşi_ from the frying oil. When she faced him again, she was fretting with her hands. “It’s the first time I’ve made these, and Galette’s not the best judge of taste, after all, with the way she gobbles down anything sweet.”

An indignant _MAOW!_ from the window.

“It’s not slander if it’s true!”

Aymeric laughed softly and reached out to take Synnove’s hand, not minding the bits of flour and dough still clinging to it. He gently tugged her closer, and raised her hand to his lips so he could press a kiss against her knuckles. “Synnove, I am honored you are sharing such a treasured part of your childhood with me,” he said solemnly, looking her straight in the eye. Some of the tension went out of her shoulders. “And if these _papanaşi_ aren’t perfect the first time, you will merely have to try again.” He grinned roguishly at her. “I certainly do not mind in the least serving as your loyal taste tester!”

Synnove finally laughed, reclaiming her hand so she could use both to gently grasp his face and drop a kiss of her own on his forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips. “You always seem to know exactly what I need to hear,” she said as she drew away. “All right, eat! Tell me what you think.”

He managed a kiss to her palm before she completely stepped away, and then picked up the fork and knife. He cut a piece from the doughnut, making sure it was covered with both the compote and _smetana,_ and slid the bite into his mouth.

Aymeric closed his eyes and hummed. The doughnut was sweet and just fluffy enough to keep from being heavy, the cheese used to make it brought out brightly with sugar and a bit of lemon. The sweetness was cut by the cool tang of the _smetana_ and the tart rolanberry. _Bliss._

He finished chewing and swallowed, opening his eyes to smile at Synnove. “That,” he said as he began immediately cutting another (larger) piece, “is _delicious._ ”

Synnove beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a writing challenge without some food porn. :D


	15. Making the Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #14: Validation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 14, 2018.

_“I WAS RIGHT!”_

Synnove dropped her head onto her crossed arms with a loud groan. Alakhai shook her head as she watched Rereha begin a victory dance next that started next to their usual table and took her around the mostly empty Quicksand. (Midmorning was about the only time you’d find Ul’dah’s premier inn this lacking in patrons.) The Dunesfolk lady kept chanting, “I was right, I was right, I was right, I was right,” as she shimmied and waved her arms, occasionally interrupting herself to cackle. The few other patrons present ignored her, used to far stranger antics on the premise.

Heron glared through her fingers at Momodi. “Do you know how _insufferable_ she’s going to be for the next moon?”

“Oh, that one’s going to be punting her from the Aftcastle in Limsa Lominsa within the next few days, I have no doubt,” the proprietress of the Quicksand said, jerking her thumb at Synnove.

The Highlander grunted her agreement.

“Regardless of her insufferability, she had to be correct about one of her ridiculous conspiracy theories at _some_ point,” Momodi said to the three (mostly) sane Warriors of Light.

“Yes, but _that one?_ ” Heron said, incredulous.

“I’ll admit, the chances were incredibly slim…”

Alakhai turned her attention from Rereha to Momodi, eyes narrowed in such a way that the glow of the limbal rings around her irises seemed to intensify. In her usual slow, deliberate manner, she said, “How much of a cut of the winnings are you getting?”

“Momodi!”

The Quicksand’s mistress rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Heron, this is Ul’dah, of course I run the betting books on all the crackpot theories that get brewed up. It’s the best way to keep track of news and rumors.” She grinned wickedly. “And my take of _that_ particular pool is going to pay for the renovations to the baths we desperately need.”

“You’re going to need to contract plumbers from another city-state, no one here is sane enough,” Synnove said, voice muffled as she still had yet to raise her head from her arms.

Momodi’s expression went from smug to annoyed. “I know,” she grumbled. “I’m also going to have to increase the dues I collect from my adventurers if I want a hope in hells of getting ahead of the mess they create, instead of desperately playing catch up.”

Heron pointed at Rereha. “Just charge her account, it’s not like she’d _notice._ ”

“No, but her mother’s the one who does all the accounting for their family, and I’m not stupid enough to cross _her_.”

Synnove, Heron, and Alakhai all collectively shuddered.

From the other side of the Quicksand, Rereha interrupted her victory chant to yell, “Don’t invoke You-Know-Who, all that does is summon her faster than a primal! And I’d prefer the primal!”

Momodi mimed locking her mouth shut, because really, everyone would prefer the primal. She patted both Synnove and Heron on their knees in commiseration and went back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, still don't have a damn clue about what Rereha was right about. Just imagine the wackiest Eorzea-style conspiracy theory you can.
> 
> Also, yes, I was in fact poking a bit of gentle fun at the Quicksand (particularly the Quicksand on Balmung) there. ;)


	16. Stargazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #15: Plateau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 15, 2018.

“That one looks like a dick.”

“Rere, everything looks like either a dick or tits to you.”

“No, no, I see it, too.”

“Wha—oh come _on_.”

Rereha and Alakhai cackled as Heron groaned, the sounds echoing across the flat expanse of mountaintop. The chocobos didn’t stir, far too used to the sounds of their mistresses poking fun at one another at strange hours. The lights of Ala Mhigo twinkled far to the south, so distant on the horizon they blended with the starry expanse of the night sky.

A shuffling came from Synnove’s bedroll, the Highlander poking her head out from her makeshift nest of blankets and carbuncles. Tyr grumbled on top of her. “Rere, go get laid already, for fuck’s sake,” she said.

“I’m banned from the _Siren’s Delight._ ”

“Why was that your immediate response—wait, no, don’t answer that, I can guess and now I feel dirty. Go to a _classy_ pleasure barge, then, it’s not like you can’t afford it! Or one of the brothels in Gridania or Ul’dah, it’s not like you don’t have _options._ ”

“I liked the _Delight_!”

Synnove continued as if she hadn’t heard Rereha. “And I’m too damned scared to ask how in the Seven Hells you got banned from the swivin’ _Siren’s Delight_ of all the barges in the harbor.”

“Talent,” Heron and Alakhai said simultaneously. Rereha pouted as her three friends burst out laughing.

The silence that descended as their laughter tapered off was comfortable. It had been a long while since the last time they had all been able to escape out into the wilderness, away from responsibilities and worries and ringing linkpearls and being _Warriors of Light._

The routine hadn’t changed in a long time. Find the most remote mountain peak or forest clearing they could, set up camp, tend to the chocobos. Cook dinner, drink ale, eat dessert. Set up the bedrolls, wiggle into comfortable positions, watch the sky. See shapes in the clouds, make up new constellations, drag the Hells out of one another.

“…mmm, that one looks like a double-headed axe.”

“Rere’s a thirsty bisexual disaster and you’re a little too attached to weapons, Alakhai.”

“ _You_ only ever see mathematical concepts or carbuncles.”

“All right, so we each have our biases.”

“What’s Heron’s, then?” Rereha said.

“The ability to see the world around her and not think only in terms of ‘sex,’ ‘arcanima,’ or ‘stabbing,’” the Hellsguard in question drawled.

“Well, shite, ladies, she’s got us there.”

Another collective laugh, this time from all four of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply enjoy writing dialogue, and more specifically writing dialogue for a bunch of sassy friends who like to regularly take the piss out of one another. ;)


	17. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #16: Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 16, 2018.

_Everyone_ knew about the arcanima tattoos that crawled up Synnove’s arms, crept onto the backs of her hands, completely encircled her skin. She made no bones about hiding them, frequently rolling up the sleeves of her shirts, even altering a few of her favorite jackets just to better display them. They appeared black at first glance, but flashed a subtle dark green when they caught the light just _so._

They were a warning and a weapon both: common sigils, cramped equations, sections of arrays, all carefully pressed into her skin in aetheric ink. _I am an arcanist, and a summoner, and I am not limited by a lack of a grimoire on my hip._

The one on her back was another matter entirely.

Synnove practically purred as she felt Aymeric’s fingers gently trace the lines of black ink (mundane, not aetheric) and splashes of bright color. She had gotten the last of it done today after a month of sessions with the grumpy Sun Seeker matron who was the best tattoo artist in Limsa Lominsa, and did all the ink for the Yellowjackets and Maelstrom. Besides N’dhovaka, no one else had seen it—or even knew about it. And, yes, she had cheated a little, and used _Physick_ to speed up the healing on her back so she could finish the enormous piece faster—and be able to wear a shirt without wincing.

She had known exactly to whom she had first wanted to show the finished piece.

A linkpearl call to Aymeric after she and her tattoo artist were both satisfied, and off to Ishgard she had gone. Aymeric had been waiting for her at Borel Manor, intrigued by her vague message enough to cancel his meetings for the rest of the afternoon since she only rarely interrupted his work. He had only arched an eyebrow in comment when she’d grabbed his hand and dragged him up the stairs to the bedroom, although a smirk had most definitely been playing at the corners of his mouth.

Once they had reached his bedroom, she had locked the door behind them and took five long strides to the bed, undoing the straps on her thighboots as she did and shucking them unceremoniously. With her back to her beloved, she had unbuckled her coat and tossed it over the footboard of the bed, doing the same with her shirt after pulling it over her head. She had heard Aymeric draw in a sharp breath as he first glimpsed the tattoo, and she had smirked as she unwound her breast band and set that aside, too. Completely bare from the waist up, she had drawn her hair over her shoulder to show the piece in all its glory, and then had crawled onto the bed to lay on her stomach and make herself comfortable.

Aymeric hadn’t hesitated to sit next to her and reach out with reverent hands to begin softly touching her. And now here they were.

Centered on her back was a compass rose. But not just _any_ compass rose.

East was a white griffin rampant, blue sword held pointing down in one taloned paw, crowned with a golden star: Ala Mhigo, city of her birth, and the Resistance that had finally won it back from Garlemald. Beneath the griffin, in simple black lines that curled down and to the left to help shape the circumference of the compass rose, prowled a bear, the symbol of Aunt Angharad’s family and Aunt Angharad herself.

South was the Ul’dahn scale, balancing the flame of might and the jewel of prosperity: city of refuge for herself for ten years. On either side of the scales were more stylized shapes like the bear that served to shape the bottom curve of the compass rose: a heron in flight next to the flame, and a laughing fox next to the jewel.

West was the obsidian longboat on a field of crimson: Limsa Lominsa, her chosen home for the last fifteen years. Curving down and to the right galloped a mare, hooves flashing, in the same style as the fox and heron and bear. Above the Lominsan flag, in brilliant gold ink, flashed the sigil of the Arcanists’ Guild.

North, brushing up on the bottom of the nape of her neck, was where Aymeric currently traced his fingers, his touch soft but possessive. And no wonder: on a field of Ishgardian blue lay not the quartered escutcheon with the sigils of the High Houses, but instead that of House Borel.

Finally, after long moments, Aymeric drew his fingers down her spine to rest at the heart of the compass rose. Three carbuncles—one blue-green, one gold, and one ruby—chased each other in an endless circle. Within their center was a wolf’s head, in glossy silver ink. Unlike the Greywolfe family’s emblem, however, whose wolf bore golden eyes, this one gazed out on the world with green ones, the same color as fresh cut emeralds, and Synnove’s own eyes.

Aymeric leaned down and pressed his lips on the wolf’s forehead, sighing against her skin. Synnove blinked drowsily, feeling all the remaining tension she still had drain from her muscles, leaving her a warm, sated pile of a woman. Aymeric began trailing kisses up and down her spine and Synnove hummed contently, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Republican Signifier's Fingerless Gloves are why Synnove has the arm tattoos, considering the model for said gloves. God, I love them. And I decided at the same time she was going to have an epic back piece, too, but I told no one and just held the idea in my head for a long time. I was very glad when this prompt finally inspired me to write about it properly. :D


	18. Excision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #17: Without a Trace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 18, 2018.

The second time she came home from the Arcanists’ Guild on break, Synnove packed up her room.

The gently-worn clothes she had long since outgrown were put into a separate pile to be donated. The more damaged clothes were put into a scrap pile; the seamstresses at the shelters and charities throughout Ul’dah were especially expert at resizing worn out clothing into something pretty for younger or smaller girls. Her favorite items that didn’t warrant bringing back with her to Limsa Lominsa (primarily because there was _no damn room_ in her dormitory), she set aside to bring to Rereha’s. Rereha’s walk-in closet could probably comfortably house a family of four, and the lalafell had already sectioned off an area for her use.

The clothes Synnove hated, the ones made in fabrics she despised and colors that looked atrocious, the ones that had been ordered by Mother, were put in boxes to be brought up to the attic. Isolde would pitch a _fit_ if anything she had paid “good coin” for ended up at a women’s shelter or charity assisting refugees and the poor (never mind that she had been both herself only a few years ago). She wasn’t going to put poor Aunt Angharad in the position of having to listen to Mother’s rants, nor the charity or shelter managers, either, even though it was a waste of perfectly good cloth.

The books Synnove legitimately sweated over choosing. So little room in her dorm. Her favorite series of novels she shoved into her travel bag to bring back to Limsa Lominsa, as well as a favorite geometry text. Other textbooks were carefully wrapped in waxed leather and placed in a cedar chest that Aunt Angharad would bring up to the attic. Her pulp novels and romance collection would go to Rereha’s (and no doubt be thoroughly picked over by both Rere and Heron, but they had always swapped books to read).

Her jewelry box she consigned to the attic. She had already brought her favorite pieces with her when she had first gone off to study at the Arcanists’ Guild.

She had few plush toys. Her grey wolf, the one she had had since before the fall of Ala Mhigo, already guarded her bed back at the Guild. The others she owned had all been handmade by Aunt Angharad—just like Wolfie—and she petted each as she fretted over them. Finally, she packed her white griffin, Cloud, in her travel bag, and gave the others a last hug before adding them to the donation pile for the shelter. Another child would no doubt find comfort from them.

The few paintings she had chosen for herself were wrapped up to be stored in the attic. Her posters, featuring advertisements for plays she had enjoyed or special gladiatorial matches (and yes, there were quite a few featuring Raubahn Aldynn), were already at Rereha’s. Mother had _hated_ them and there was no doubt in Synnove’s mind that Mother would have tried tossing them in the trash. Synnove had no attachment to any of the bedclothes or furniture or rugs; she hadn’t slept here since her last visit, so the linens didn’t need to be stripped and changed.

Once her packing was done, Synnove took a last look at what had once been her room from the doorway. She hadn’t lived in it long, what with Mother’s obsession with ensuring their house accurately reflected their socioeconomic status; they’d moved into this manor not that long before she had been accepted at the Guild. She had absolutely no ties or significant memories of this place, and no intention of coming back.

Synnove hefted her travel pack over her shoulder and went to give Aunt Angharad a goodbye hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a half-assed piece; tumblr followers know that the 17th was, uh, a very, very bad day for me (for reasons I don't want to get into here), and I didn't end up writing this until a few hours before the deadline. While I don't hate it, I don't... particularly care for it.
> 
> The events herein were originally referenced in a headcanon post; the first time Synnove came home, she got into a foundation-shaking argument with her mother about her choice to become an arcanist, stormed out, and stayed with Rereha the rest of her visit. This is basically her salting the earth behind her.


	19. Pigment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #18: Marked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 18, 2018.

It started out innocently enough: she was running on too much coffee and not enough sleep, and in a rare show of prudence, had scrawled the complicated equation for activating the _Ruin IV_ spell in a neat line down the underside of her left forearm, from elbow to wrist, in quick drying black ink, because it would be very, very, _very_ bad if any of these fourth-years wrote down the wrong thing. Synnove ran off to do the presentation for the advanced quantum aetheromechanics class and it wasn’t until she got back to her office later in the afternoon that she really took a good look at how the whole setup appeared.

_‘Huh. That looks… pretty interesting, actually. Wonder if I should get that as a tattoo? In aetheric ink, perhaps.’_

In hindsight, after having bitten through her lip to keep from screaming and clawing the armrest to pieces with her right hand, getting that as a first tattoo hadn’t been her best idea. At least, not in _that_ spot. The Sun Seeker matron who had done the work smirked the whole time.

Radial nerves, they sucked. A lot.

So of course, she decided to get it the fuck over with and had Ikuku’s equation, the foundational equation for nearly _everything_ in arcanmia, tattooed down her _right_ inner forearm. She had thanked the Twelve that she was ambidextrous after finishing that tattoo and she had been forced to write exclusively with her left hand until her right arm stopped throbbing at every flex. Not even _Physick_ had helped much to alleviate pain like _that._

Once both arms had finished healing, however, the green aetheric ink she had provided N’dhovaka glittering when she moved her arms just right in the sun, she decided to try an experiment.

Synnove’s smile upon successfully getting _Ruin IV_ to activate _without_ a grimoire with the spell’s array system inscribed within it would properly be described as _maniacal._ Ivar had automatically joined in her cackling, the bloodthirsty firebug.

Planning out the rest of her sleeves took time. Creating aetheric shortcuts for most of her spell repertoire hadn’t been too difficult; having Ikuku’s equation already pressed into her skin helped immensely and most spell arrays were designed and written in two dimensions anyway. It was the summoning arrays upon which she ended up spending the most time. She already had shortcuts for the carbuncles in her grimoires: their arrays were far too complex to properly express in two dimensions and it took about half a book to properly map out the different layers. Compressing those shortcuts even further into something that could fit on her skin ended up taking sennights of trial and error and Halulu forcing sleeping potions down her throat.

Worth it, though. So very, very worth it.

N’dhovaka took one look at Synnove when she walked back into her shop with an armful of diagrams and shook her head. “Yer bloody mad is what ye are,” she said, but she took the diagrams anyway and spread them out on the parlor’s countertop. Together, they ended up sketching out a workable layout for the shortcut arrays and the various component geometries and equations needed to ensure they properly activated.

The final result wasn’t quite full sleeves—there was still room on her upper arms—but they were spectacular regardless. She still used her grimoire, as using only the tattoos was a much greater drain on her personal reserves of aether than channeling through the book, but should she ever find herself without it, she wouldn’t be defenseless. And she did so love giving her enemies nasty surprises.

Also, they just _looked_ swiving amazing. And rather drove in the point that she called a city of pirates home.

Synnove grinned toothily as she turned her arms back and forth, admiring the colors now pressed into her skin. She couldn’t wait to scandalize the Ishgardian elite at whatever soiree Aymeric invited her to next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Oda-san and Koji, for making allllll my headcanon dreams come true this past FanFest. :D


	20. Chance Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #19: Gelid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 19, 2018.

Synnove was perusing the earrings at one of the silversmith stalls along the Jeweled Crozier when she heard her name being called. She looked up, blinking in surprise, but she smiled when she recognized the speaker. “Ser Aymeric, hullo,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “Fancy meeting you today. How fare you this lovely morning?”

“I am quite well, Synnove, thank you,” Ser Aymeric said. “And yourself?” He was dressed informally, in worn but obviously comfortable leathers, including a fur-lined leather coat, with a blue scarf wrapped around his neck. He carried what was probably a longbow, based on the shape, in a hard leather case slung over his shoulder.

It took most of her considerable willpower to keep her eyes on his. She had a weakness for men in leather and she had zero doubt Rereha had suddenly burst into diabolic giggles in the middle of the Forgotten Knight. Out loud, she said cheerfully, “Much the same.”

The Lord Commander smiled, before his attention was drawn to a sudden shifting at her stomach. He raised an eyebrow as he took in the no doubt _odd_ sight of an otherwise sturdy Highlander with the straight lines of her winterwear interrupted by a suspiciously protruding stomach. “A new method of staying warm?” he said, voice dry.

Synnove smirked and tugged the neck of her long jacket out and away. She looked down into its depths and said, “Oi, get up here and say hello, dearheart.”

Galette grumbled but obligingly wiggled up from her pocket of warm. Synnove grunted when the carbuncle stepped uncomfortably on one of her breasts (every damned time and always the same spot), but smirked again as she took in the wide-eyed surprise of Aymeric (and the elderly silversmith lurking and pretending not to pay attention) as her eldest aether construct finally poked her head out, right beneath her own chin. “Mya!” Galette said. _Hi!_

Aymeric laughed in delight. “Hello to you, too, Miss Galette,” he said, and bowed. Galette burbled approvingly, but a sudden gust of frigid wind through the Crozier caused her to shriek and burrow back down into her mama’s jacket.

Synnove rolled her eyes and brought her right arm up to support Galette’s bum as the carbuncle resettled herself. “This one doesn’t like the cold at all,” she said. “I don’t believe she’s allowed her delicate little toes to touch the cobblestones since we arrived in Ishgard proper.”

A plaintive, muffled warble issued from her stomach.

“Normally I wouldn’t have brought her with me on my errands,” Synnove said with a shrug, “but needs must.”

“Was there no one to keep an eye on her?” Aymeric asked, genuinely curious.

She shook her head and began ticking off on her fingers. “Alakhai’s down at Camp Dragonhead for the next sennight,” she said, “and Heron was recruited by Lucia to chase some of the new recruits around one of the salles. Something about knocking them off their high chocobos or some such.” She shrugged as Aymeric put a hand over his month to stifle another laugh. Shame, she liked that laugh of his; perhaps she could get another out of him?

The thought now simmering at the back of her mind, she continued, saying, “Rereha and Tataru are down at the Forgotten Knight, collecting gossip, and I am telling you now, that should terrify you. Galette does not respect Alphinaud _at all_ , so I can’t ask him to keep an eye on her, and he’s one political treatise away from a research binge in any event, if he hasn’t already begun one. Artoirel is occupied with his own endeavors and to be honest, Galette has already decided to make him her pranking target and I am not going to encourage her behavior. Count Edmont is busy managing his House and also doesn’t quite yet understand just how cunning this one is when it comes to getting her next fix of sugar.”

A muffled, windchime snicker, which was an aural dichotomy that really should not work.

“You hush,” Synnove said to her stomach. “Emmanellain… No. Just. Just, no. Honoroit honestly would have been my preferred choice of carbuncle-sitter, but he’s a bit busy making sure Emmanellain doesn’t break his neck or wake up in the gutter.”

Aymeric wasn’t _quite_ able to stop himself from snorting a laugh at that statement, because, well, it was true. Also, holy shite, that noise was _adorable,_ and his blue eyes lit up and his grin was decidedly more carefree than she had ever seen it _._ Oh, she was definitely going to get him to laugh again, yes, she was.

She was not telling Rereha about this.

“So here I am,” she said with a vague gesture, encompassing herself and the Crozier as a whole, “shopping, with a carbuncle stuffed down my jacket. Not the first time it’s happened, and not the strangest thing I’ve done, although admittedly in Limsa Lominsa I was significantly less likely to get blunt questions from complete strangers asking when the babe is due.”

That did it. Aymeric bent over, hands pressed against his knees, as he broke out into peels of laughter _._ A few of the other merchants were looking over, surprise on many a face at the sight of the Lord Commander in a fit of laughter. The silversmith whose stall she was currently patronizing was hiding a smile behind her own hand; she seemed less scandalized and more delighted with the current goings on.

Synnove smiled beatifically at the silversmith as Aymeric slowly got himself under control. “I’ll take the hardsilver dangle earrings with sapphires,” she said, then pursed her lips thoughtfully. “And, ah, Hells with it, the opal earrings, too.”

“Of course, miss,” the silversmith said with a half bow and a wide smile. She plucked her choices from the display and wrapped them up as Synnove counted out her gil. Money and earrings exchanged hands and with the transaction settled, Synnove smiled her thanks and moved off to the side, stuffing her purchase into her satchel.

Aymeric stood upright again, face still tinged red from breathless laughter. “Synnove Greywolfe,” he said, smiling broadly at her. “You are a breath of fresh spring air in this city of perpetual winter. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you on the rest of your errands?”

Synnove felt her own face flush, and decidedly not from the wind or cold. Thal’s balls, that was a damned good line, and even she could tell that wasn’t artifice or practiced. That was just _not fair._

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the elderly silversmith give her a broad wink of encouragement.

Well. She only had the one life, she might as well derive as much enjoyment as she could from it.

“Ser Aymeric,” she said, a little formal and a little shy, “you are the one who would do me the honor.”

The Lord Commander gave her an elegant bow and after rising from it, held out his arm to her. Synnove smiled and, calling upon the etiquette lessons forced upon her as a child, gave a brief half curtsy using her long jacket before settling her hand in the crook of his elbow. They grinned at each other and she could have sworn she saw the tips of his ears turn pink.

“If I may make a suggestion, my lady?” Aymeric said.

“You may, ser knight.”

“There is an excellent drinks stall nearby that sells coffee,” he began, even as Synnove herself cheered, because _coffee,_ “and hot chocolate. Perhaps we could stop by there to warm ourselves up?”

Synnove’s stomach madly wriggled like a caught fish, and the Highlander yelped and hurriedly jerked her chin out of the way as Galette shoved herself up her summoner’s torso to pop her head out of the jacket again, ears twitching as she looked up between Aymeric and Synnove. The carbuncle chattered in high-pitched excitement, the faint chiming thump of three tails wagging coming from inside Synnove’s coat. _Hot chocolate?! Yes yes yes! Mommy, I want hot chocolate!_

“That,” Synnove said, “sounds a like a wonderful idea. Lead on, good ser.”

As they headed down the Crozier, the hurried whispers of delighted merchants and curious shoppers following in their wake, Synnove briefly thought that if the gossip vine was any good in Ishgard, Rereha would know exactly what had just happened within the bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was grinning like a fucking loon when I wrote this. Look at these two ridiculous smitten dorks.


	21. Clean Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #20: Two Birds with One Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 20, 2018.

“Well, this is a disaster zone.”

“You have a gift for understatement, Halulu, truly.”

The northeast tower lab was covered in what could only be called aetheric _goo_ , and by “covered” she meant _every swiving surface._ It was thick and dense and incredibly viscous, though as clear as mirrored glass, and if it hadn’t been derived from depleted elemental crystals and thus completely inert, Synnove would have pulled the alarm and ordered an evacuation of the tower. The vice chair and her assistant were standing in the only clear spot in the entire room, right in front of the door.

Halulu scribbled something on her new tablet, the stylus squeaking across the screen. “No more crystals from Mor Dhona, then,” she said. “At least the ones from the Tangle? Might need further tests.”

Synnove grunted as she crossed her arms and glowered at the mess. “Put the notes for this experiment in the top-secret folder,” she said. She grimaced and added, “And password lock it, too. Some of the mad bastards in aetherochemistry has been making noises about trying to replicate Allagan fire, and those fucking maniacs are not receiving any assistance that I am not professionally obligated to actually provide. Thubyrgeim _and_ the Admiral can review the datasets and decide if the ‘chem fucks need a shortcut.”

“Done. And ‘mad bastards in aetherochemistry’ is redundant.”

Synnove grunted again, and watched a thick glob of goo slowly sag down from the ceiling to meet the rest on the floor with a faintly disgusted expression on her face.

Halulu finished making notations, snapped her stylus into its spot in the tablet case, and tucked the tablet case in her satchel. The tonberry clapped her hands. “So! How are we dealing with the mess?”

Her boss tilted her head thoughtfully and rocked back on her heels. “…What do you think about me abusing my position as department vice chair?” Synnove said, holding up her right thumb and index finger in such a way that there was only a hairsbreadth of space between them. “Just the teeniest, tiniest little bit.”

“That depends. What are you thinking?”

“We have that group of…hm, how to put this as nice as possible… Ah! Idiot second-years.”

“We have a lot of those, unfortunately. Can you be more specific?”

“The ones from Houxine’s advanced multivariable calculus class.”

The tonberry blinked. “Oh, those.” She blinked again—and cackled like a witch. “ _Oh!_ Ohhhh, I see where you’re going with this.”

Synnove hummed, green eyes sparking with vicious glee. “Yes. Normally, they wouldn’t be under my purview since they’re all on the mathematics track, but Houxine yielded their disciplinary matters to _me_ after that last “prank” of theirs left two of _my_ first-years in tears. And I haven’t assigned them punishment detail yet.”

The two arcanists exchanged sharp-toothed grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aetherophysics thinks aetherochem is made up of a bunch of violent lunatics who are going to kill everyone with chemical and biological warfare. The shit they do over at the Farm is horrifying.
> 
> Aetherochem think aetherophysics are certifiably insane pyromaniacs who are going to accidentally on purpose tear apart reality at the seams and then not put it back together. Also: explosions. So many.
> 
> And the mathematics department of the Guild thinks the other two are both insane raging assholes who need to chill the fuck out.


	22. Seven Courses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #21: Repast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 21, 2018.

She had been Good _all night,_ just like she had promised Mommy, and now the time of reckoning was nearly upon her.

Galette chittered in excitement.

Mommy had brought her to Ishgard to attend a dinner party at Fortemps Manor. Well, _Mommy_ was attending the dinner party, with Aymeric and not-Count Edmont and Count Artoirel and a whole bunch of other people. Some of them, Mommy and Aymeric and the Fortemps even liked! Mommy had worn a pretty green dress and pretty jewelry. (Emeralds, of course.) Not that Mommy wasn’t always pretty, but tonight she was _super extra_ pretty.

_She_ got to stay in the kitchens!

“All right, sweetheart,” Mommy had said, setting her down on a high stool next to a table in an out of the way corner of the manor kitchens, “you’re to stay here tonight and you _will_ mind Mistress Alboise. If she wants you to move somewhere else, you will move to where she tells you. If she wants you to stay, you stay. If she offers you anything to eat, you may eat it if you want. Do _not_ make a mess; the servers and staff are going to be very busy tonight and as Mistress Alboise offered to watch you, it would be rude to make extra work for them.”

She had cupped Galette’s face in her hands, then, and looked her right in the eye. “Do you understand?”

Galette had yipped. _Yes, Mommy, I understand!_

“And if Mistress Alboise decides you were good tonight, you may have dessert.”

_OH BOY!_

“Settle, lovely. _If Mistress Alboise decides you were good._ Will you be good?”

Galette had yipped three more times. _Yes, yes, yes, Mommy! I will be very, very good!_

Mommy had leaned down and kissed her forehead. Galette had purred happily and shoved her face into Mommy’s neck for a quick cuddle. Mmmm, Mommy cuddles, they were the _best._ “All right, sweetheart,” Mommy had said when she finally pulled away, “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

And Galette had been _very, very good._ She had stayed on her stool the whole night, watching the staff prepare the multiple courses for the dinner in a whirl of shouted instructions and fine porcelain and hot pans and the roaring ovens. Some of the staff, when they had a moment, would come over to give her ear scritches–yay!–or even _hugs!_ Double yay!

She watched Mommy cook and bake all the time, but this kitchen was much bigger and there were a lot more people moving around. And the smells were so _good._ Not enough sugar, in her opinion, but still very yummy!

Mistress Alboise, the head cook for House Fortemps, was an elderly elezen matron. She or one of her sous chefs stopped by throughout the night to offer little tidbits and small plates sampling the various courses being served to Mommy and the nobles. Galette didn’t like them _all,_ but most were very good.

The hors d’oeuvres course had been the most interesting. So many kinds of canapes! Her favorite had been the tiny little toasted bagels smeared with cream cheese and topped with bits of smoked salmon and sprigs of dill. Mmmmmmmm, good good good. Tyr would have liked those, too. The deviled eggs had been all right, but too spicy for her; that was more an Ivar treat.

There had been little spoons full of caviar, too. _Yuuuuuuck._ She had not regretted turning her nose up at that offering. Mistress Alboise had only laughed.

The soup course had two offerings: a strong yak beef consommé and a creamy carrot. Galette had sniffed both carefully and taste both from the little saucers offered to her. The consommé was _very_ tasty, but a bit boring. The carrot soup was _gooooood._ It had ginger and a bit of lemon, and ooohh, was that sour cream? Yummmmmm. Galette had ended up tapping the saucer of carrot soup with a paw when she was finished, chirping just loud enough to attract the attention of the nearby staff. _More, please?_ One of the sous chefs had understood and gotten her a nice big bowl to enjoy. She had cheeped her thanks and settled in to sip daintily.

The fish course was simple: grilled rainbow trout with mousseline sauce. It had _smelled_ good, but she was still too full from the soup (having had another large helping) to be able to eat any. She had loafed on her stool instead and took a short nap.

An asparagus salad with a vinaigrette made with saffron and a sparkling white wine came fourth. Oh, Tyr was going to be _so jealous!_ Galette had barely managed to keep her place setting neat she had been so excited to eat it all. She had licked the plate clean, too.

The main course contained three options for the diners. The first was a filet mignon, topped with foie gras and sliced truffles, served on crispy popotoes with a red wine sauce. The second was roasted duck, glazed in a molasses and orange mixture, the skin perfectly crispy, with a side of mashed ogre pumpkin. And the third was an elegantly layered ratatouille: wizard eggplant, ramhorn zucchini, bell peppers, and yellow squash in a Dzemael tomato and béchamel sauce.

She had drooled. It wasn’t ladylike, but could anyone blame her?

Yes, she had eaten a little of all three.

The cheeses and fresh fruits were currently being served out in the main dining room. (Galette had passed—she needed to save room in her tummy!) Now, now the _dessert course_ was being prepared.

She had been very good! She had been So Very Good!!

Galette saw Mistress Alboise walking towards her with a tray, and the carbuncle couldn’t contain her excitement any longer. She began pattering her front paws on the stool, straining forward to see better without standing up, and she yipped loudly. _Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy oh boy oh boy!_

Mistress Alboise laughed and set the tray down on the table next to her. “There you are, little one,” she crooned, stroking Galette’s ears gently. “I do hope you enjoy.”

Galette stared in awe.

So. Many. _TREATS!_

A cup containing peaches in an herbal liqueur jelly. A small plate with a chocolate eclair stuffed with vanilla cream. A glass of rich chocolate mousse with sprigs of mint. A little bowl of strawberry ice cream, freshly churned, topped with a generous dollop of Chantilly cream. A ramekin of lemon cake with a simple sugar glaze.

Galette headbutted Mistress Alboise, warbling out a chiming meow. _THANK YOU!_

“You are most welcome, Galette.” The elezen gave her one last pet and went back to supervising her staff.

Galette started with the ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I actually looked up some examples of multiple course dinners, and ended up yoinking a lot of ideas here from the dinner served on the _Titanic._
> 
> Also, yes, I made myself _epically hungry_ writing and researching this one.


	23. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #22: Orchestrion (Catch Up/Extra Credit/Writer's Choice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 22, 2018.

Dinner had been finished, the dishes cleaned and put away, and the carbuncles tucked into bed. Synnove and Aymeric had both retreated back upstairs after that last chore to collapse on the couch in front of the fireplace, heavily leaning into each other as they did. Synnove had tucked her legs up underneath herself and had almost immediately dropped off to sleep, head on his shoulder. Aymeric, somehow, managed to stay awake, and he stared into the cheery flames for at least a bell while absently stroking Synnove’s hair, his own feet propped up on the low coffee table before the couch.

The past sennight had been _long._ For himself, he had come back from two sennights with the Temple Knights on a joint wargame with the Grand Companies and the new Ala Mhigan army, small but still growing under General Aldynn’s watchful eye. Of course, rather than rest as any sane person would, instead he had been obligated to catch up on parliamentary business and attend the final sessions before the winter recess began earlier today.

He would have much preferred the war games to have gone long rather than deal with the House of Lords, honestly.

Synnove had been hip deep in overseeing the end of semester examinations: working out the exam schedule with the professors, writing up copies of the test up for the seminar she had taught that semester, grading papers and projects. There were her own projects to conduct, mentees to advise, and the never-ending stack of journal article drafts she peer reviewed for her colleagues with ruthlessness and blood red ink. And, per her grumbling as they prepared dinner, her attendance had been requested by the Yellowjackets for cargo inspections for _three_ unscheduled entries into the harbor.

Sleep was sorely tempting at the moment, but Aymeric wanted to be selfish and enjoy Synnove’s company a while longer.

The lady in question stirred and shifted against him, stretching her arms out in front of herself as she woke. He tightened his hold on her, dropping a kiss on her head, and smiled down at her as she blinked the sleep from her eyes. “Good nap?” he said.

“Not bad,” Synnove said, yawning and rubbing her eyes with her knuckles before wrapping her arms around him. She went boneless, resting all of her weight on his torso. “Should probably head to bed proper, but, ugh. Getting up. Don’t want to.”

Aymeric hummed thoughtfully, then smiled. “I have an idea you’ll enjoy, I believe, although it will involve standing.” He laughed at her scowl. “Let me up, love.”

Synnove grumbled but acquiesced, leaning back against the couch to stay upright. Aymeric pushed himself upright with only the smallest grunt—it was a damnably comfortable couch already, and adding his lover and his own exhausted self made it the most extraordinary piece of furniture of which he knew—and moved the coffee table to the side, creating a large, clear space before the fireplace. He walked the few steps to one of the side tables set flush against the wall, bending down to rifle through the box on top of it. Making a triumphant noise, he selected an orchestrion roll and slid it into the tabletop orchestrion next that Synnove had built for herself not that long ago. He set the orchestrion to loop the music continuously, and pressed the ‘on’ button.

A quiet, dreamy waltz drifted from the little machine. Nodding in satisfaction, Aymeric turned around and stepped back towards the couch, bowing and holding his hand out to his smiling beloved. “Dance with me?” he said.

Synnove smiled wider and settled her hand in his. “I would be delighted,” she said, pushing off the couch as he pulled her forward.

They settled into an easy stance: his left hand and her right clasped together, his right hand on her waist and her left on his shoulder. He led off slowly, their movements were deliberate and leisurely, more a sway than a true dance, as they began to move around the room. Synnove rested her head on his shoulder again, absently humming along to the music, and Aymeric pressed his cheek against her hair, moving his right arm so he could properly hold her around her waist.

The tension and stress, finally, drained away from them both as they danced before the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those little ideas that had been lurking in the back of my head for a while.


	24. Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #23: Alms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 23, 2018.

Synnove tightened the straps on the packs attached to Trifle’s harness, grunting as the leather creaked in protest. Trifle stood rock steady, the draught chocobo utterly unperturbed by the weight she was carrying. The hyur gave a last tug and, finally satisfied, pulled the end of the strap through the buckle to keep it cinched.

She took a few steps back, hands on her hips as she looked at the chocobo and her cargo. Chewing on her lip, she turned to look over her shoulder. “What do you think, do we have everything?”

“Kweh!” Chantilly said, bobbing her head up and down. The white chocobo flapped her wings for emphasis. Galette, sitting on the pillion seat, yipped agreement.

Synnove looked back at Trifle, still chewing her lip. “…One last quick check.”

Chantilly _sighed._ Galette groaned. Trifle rolled her eyes, but crouched down without being directed. Synnove darted closer, rifling through the various packs and comparing their contents to her mental checklist.

With the Starlight Celebration and Heavensturn fast approaching within the next moon, the various charities throughout the Eorzean city-states were in full swing with donation drives. Synnove always contributed generously when she could to the branch of the Eorzea Widows and Orphans Fund run by the Maelstrom, and the trinkets she had made had already been passed on during the collection the Guild ran. As with last year, however, this year’s gift-giving was more personal.

This was only the second year Ala Mhigo had been free of Garlean occupation, the second year its citizens could openly celebrate Winter’s Knell in two epochs, and the great city was still struggling to rebuild, provide for the long-suffering citizens of Gyr Abania, _and_ welcome home its refugees. Most of Synnove’s free crafting time had thus gone to preparing items to bring to Ala Mhigo. There _were_ formal collection drives occurring in each of the city-states specifically to assist the Ala Mhigans, but…

Well. Synnove liked to bring hers and her family’s donations directly to some of the shelters in the place of her birth.

Two packs contained various sweets made by Aunt Angharad: fudge of assorted flavors, brittles, honeycomb candy, caramels, taffy, and some delicious whiskey truffles for the adults. Keltgeim’s offerings were similar: jars and jars and _jars_ of fruit preserves and pickled or fermented vegetables. Her take on Far Eastern fermented cabbage and radish with various spices had been a particularly big hit last year, and she’d brought Synnove an entire box of the jars (after promising that yes, she had saved some for Synnove, too).

Heron and Aunt Angharad had knit up a storm, with Thaeya of the Seekers free company doing the same with crochet: scarves, hats, sweaters, shirts, gloves, and enough socks to clothe an army. Small, big, wide, in a huge variety of colors and patterns. Wool for winter, cotton for summer. Nemene and Halulu ended up managing the sewn clothing options, churning out relatively simple but sturdy shirts, pants, and skirts in assorted colors and fabrics and sizes. They had embellished them with various embroidered patterns, such as floral or geometric designs, taking over one of the unused tower labs with other Guild arcanists assisting with their project.

Starling sent along beautiful jewelry, mostly necklaces and bracelets, made from assorted shells she found on her various fishing expeditions. Alakhai had gone to Reunion and teleported back that same day with furs and tanned hides and woven blankets, using rare Eorzean herbs and ores as trade goods. Y’qheebo, another Seekers member, donated older but still serviceable instruments for her collection: pipes, flutes, drums, even a few small hand harps, and sheet music to go with them. Thaeya’s husband, Arry, crafted up toy swords and shields and bows and child-sized leather armor, for the little boys and girls who wanted to play mercenary (or Warrior of Light). Khebi had come up with cunning portable modules that displayed star charts and maps and even scanned pages of popular storybooks.

Rereha didn’t possess a single crafty bone in her body, but she had more gil in her trust fund than she knew what to do with and enough sense to know the good it could do for others. This year she was financing another three blocks worth of apartments (both repairing and rebuilding), plus a school in the old merchant district. The signed contracts were in a sealed case on Synnove’s hip, and she quickly pulled them out to double check all the pages were still present.

Synnove’s own contributions were varied: simple music boxes with set orchestrion rolls, featuring new music—lullabies and folk songs, mostly, but also love songs for the teens and adults—by F’lhammin, after calling in a _large_ favor with the Songstress of Ul’dah. Mammets, both guardian-companions for children and helpers for their parents. Plush toys, too: wolves, griffins, dragons, and, of course, carbuncles. Books she’d found at various shops and repaired with new bindings, from primers to novels to cookbooks.

Closing up the last pack, Synnove stepped away from Trifle, patting the draught chocobo on the shoulder. Trifle stared at her moment, as if to make _sure_ her person was finished fretting, then easily rose to her feet with nary a rustle or clank of the contents of the packs she carried.

“All right, that’s everything!” Synnove said cheerfully.

Chantilly warked in relief, while Galette flopped dramatically on her pillion seat.

The Highlander glared at them. “I am not that bad!”

All three creatures exchanged exasperated glances, and then gave her a Look.

“…All right, so I _am_ that bad,” she said under her breath. Shaking her head, she took a step closer to Chantilly, gathered up the reins, and swung up easily into the saddle. Galette hopped from the pillion onto Synnove’s shoulders, draping herself over her summoner’s shoulders. Trifle gracefully came to stand next to Chantilly, holding out her head so Synnove could grasp her lead line.

Synnove wrapped Trifle’s lead around her hand three hands to ensure she was secure, patted Chantilly on the shoulder, and pulled at the aether around her. She closed her eyes, humming in tune with the aether’s song as she searched for the unique _pull_ of the aetheryte in the Ala Mhigan Quarter. It seemed to practically jump out at her and Synnove latched on, and let the current tug at her and her chocobos until with a _pop!_ of displaced air—

\--they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keltgeim Eyristyrwyn, Thaeya Dresden, Nemene Boann, Starling Nightsong, Y'qheebo Laqi, and Arry Dresden are all members of my FC, and were used with permission, as was A'khebica Ginwa!


	25. Upgrades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #24: Undertone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 24, 2018.

Rereha raised a finger to her lips when Alphinaud walked into the library within Fortemps Manor that Synnove had commandeered for herself. The young elezen glanced towards their summoner friend, deeply engrossed in a theorem, and crept on tiptoe to join Rereha when she patted the couch seat next to herself. It was never wise to distract Synnove when she was this deep in the rabbit hole, and he had learned that the _hard_ way.

“Has she had any sleep?” he murmured once he had settled.

Rereha shrugged. “Probably not,” the Dunesfolk lady said in the same quiet tone. “It’s only been eighteen bells, though, this is far from the record.”

Alphinaud glanced at the light slanting into the library—noon—and shook his head slightly. “She certainly would never been out of place at the Studium,” he finally said. Never mind that he had done similar more than once at the institution in question.

Rereha snickered softly before turning her attention back to the dress catalog she had been thumbing through.

Alphinaud took the opportunity to examine Synnove and her work. The Highlander was sitting in a chair before the chalkboard, legs crossed, elbow braced on her knee, chin in hand as she stared up at the theorem scrawled in her slanting hand. Her brown hair had taken on ghostly streaks of white in addition to the strands of dyed green, the remnants of likely combing back her hair with her chalk-covered hands. While from this angle he could just make out her eyes tracking back and forth, she was otherwise utterly still, save for her soft breathing, and that was just more than a bit unnerving.

(Still not as unnerving as the sounds her spine made when she finally _moved_ for the first time after one of these prolonged bouts of rumination.)

He shook himself and turned his attention more to the chalkboard. He narrowed his eyes. Was that…? No, no it couldn’t be. No one was that insane.

Was Synnove seriously attempting to use the parametrization of Bryndoensyn’s surface to express part of the equation for a—an _aether grenade supplemented by siphoning aether from an outside source?_ That was—that wasn’t possible. No, that was using a purely geometric function to code a highly complex aetherophysical command, and arcanima’s limits only extended so far. What in the name of the Twelve—

His own eye tracked back and forth, taking in the equation, mind racing as he attempted to make the same mad leap of logic.

—oh. Oh! Oh, that was devious. And, yes, absolutely insane. And more than a little terrifying. (This wasn’t even her preferred area of research, and she had just skipped by the known bounds of the field of arcanima and left it malms behind to choke on her chalk dust.) Where would she even get an aether grenade—ah. Right, silly him: Ivar.

Ivar’s internal grenade function enhanced by more aether siphoned from a (living) target.

Alphinaud shuddered. He decided he did _not_ want to know Synnove’s line of reasoning to explore this as an upgrade option for her bloodthirsty carbuncle or, more importantly, _why._ Should he ever see the field test, he was going to pray to any of the Twelve that would deign to listen that he was a _long_ way back from the blast epicenter.

He took out a small notebook he kept tucked in a pocket, along with a stick of graphite, and flipped open to a fresh page. Synnove had done most of the work already, of course, but writing it out himself would allow him to better follow her other intuitive leaps, understand what particular issue had finally confounded her, and possibly discover the solution. Genius he might be, but he had not been living and breathing arcanima for well over a decade like Synnove Greywolfe had.

The young elezen scowled as he finished copying out the set of equations. Oh, that _was_ a bothersome hole. He settled further back onto the couch, crossing his legs up on the seat, and set to problem-solving.

A bell later, Rereha jumped nearly a fulm in surprise when both Synnove and Alphinaud let out simultaneous triumphant shouts of, “GOT IT!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point, Synnove and Alphinaud write up the paper about whatever nonsense they discovered, with Synnove as lead author and Alphinaud co-author. Brains explode after it's published.


	26. Castaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #25: Mooching (Catch Up/Extra Credit/Writer's Choice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 25, 2017.

Synnove rebaited her line with a lugworm, humming under her breath as she did so. She gave the worm a tug to check that it was secure, nodded in satisfaction, and with a practiced flick of her wrist, sent her fishing line sailing out into the waters of Eastern La Noscea. A distant _plop!_ echoed back to her as hook and bait hit the ocean surface.

Sighing happily, she stuck the end of her fishing rod into the sand next to her blanket and picked up her arcanima journal again. Just after the Moonfire Faire was the best time to vista Costa del Sol: warm sun, few people, and the master of the resort gone back to Ul’dah for a few sennights to placate his investors. Synnove could sunbathe and swim to her heart’s desire off the Isle of Endless Summer without having to deal with being ogled by a self-described “aesthete.”

Well, there was _one_ aesthete she didn’t mind ogling her in her swimsuit.

Synnove grinned and turned her head to look at Aymeric out of the corner of her eye. The elezen was dozing beneath a wide sun umbrella, his dark blue swim trunks crusted with dried salt from an earlier swim and his white linen shirt balled beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. The worn paperback novel he had been reading was face down on his chest, rising and falling gently with every breath he took. After a week of forced-upon-them-both-by-well-meaning-friends vacation, his skin had turned bronze in the sun, making his blue eyes stand out all the more.

Tyr chirruped next to her. Startled out of her woolgathering, Synnove glanced over at her topaz carbuncle, tilting her head down to see him between the top of her sunglasses and the bottom of her sunhat. He raised a paw and tapped the side of his mouth with it.

Chagrined, Synnove swiped at the side of her own mouth, clearing away a small drop of saliva. She pointed a finger at Tyr. “Not a damned word, boyo,” she said.

Tyr snickered and settled back into a loaf shape to nap.

Her fishing rod tugged forward, the wood creaking. Synnove snatched it up, grabbing the reel handle and winding in the line.

A Merlthor goby wriggled and thrashed from her hook, fat and shiny as the sunlight bounced off its scale. She hauled the line closer, eyeballing the goby and comparing it to the ones already in her bucket. Huh. Much bigger than usual. Maybe she could see if she could catch something a little heartier with it to compliment dinner?

Shrugging, she stood up and recast, using the full motion of her shoulder to send the line farther out, and sitting down once she heard the sound of the fish hitting the water.

Merlthor gobies didn’t usually make for good eating, but she’d finally finagled Unsynwilf’s recipe for seafood risotto out of him and _that_ included how to properly make the fish stock for it. She needed a lot of bones and fish guts to boil into something to make enough stock for the risotto, plus a few other recipes she and Aymeric wanted to try their hand at. (Apparently the gobies were also decent baked, per Unsynwilf’s claim, but she wasn’t quite sure she was feeling _that_ adventurous with Merlthor gobies, of all the fish in Llymlaen’s nets.) Her bucket was close to full, so once it was, perhaps she and Aymeric could head back to the cabin they were renting (or, well, Rereha was renting on their behalf so they could “take a bloody break already”) and get started on dinner.

Another tug on her line. This fish was much, much larger than the goby had been, and Synnove grunted as she slowly but steadily reeled it in. A very large wahoo flopped up onto the beach with a last heave of the rod, and Tyr woke up at its splashing, pinning his ears back.

The Highlander stared at the fish critically, chewing on her thumbnail as she thought. Wahoo wasn’t popular in the restaurants at the moment for whatever strange reason, but it _was_ good eating, and this specimen was big enough she could probably sell half to the Costa del Sol resort kitchen and have the rest last a few meals. They had plenty of white fish in the cold box already, though.

There were supposed to be squid in the waters off Bloodshore; not quite the giant squid of the Indigo Deep, but their smaller cousins liked prowling the reefs, and the local megalodon had to feast on _something_ substantial to stay so close to the resort. Squid wasn’t something she had eaten in a while, but now that she thought about it, fried calamari would be delicious. And the squid around here were supposed to love wahoo.

Synnove tapped her finger thoughtfully against the wood of her fishing rod and shrugged. Hells with it, it couldn’t hurt to try.

Casting a wahoo back out into open water took some _effort,_ but she managed. She got another ten pages into the article she was reading about Calabi-Yau manifolds when her fishing line suddenly bent so far it was a miracle the rod didn’t snap entirely. Synnove yelped in surprise and grabbed it, digging her heels into the sand as she struggled to reel her catch in. “Tyr,” she managed to bite out, “could you—”

The carbuncle _boofed_ and flopped on top her legs to keep her steady.

“Good boy, thank you.”

Her fishing rod and its reel creaked ominously, but slowly but surely, she managed to get the line in. She was grinning triumphantly, when—

“KWEH!”

Synnove nearly lost her grip on the rod she was so startled. She and Tyr both jerked their heads up, staring out over the water, then exchanging a look. Was that--?

Closer now, and much louder: “ **KWEH!** ”

Aymeric sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Was that a _chocobo?_ ” he said incredulously.

Synnove lunged to her feet, dropped her fishing rod, and leapt over Tyr to wade out into the water. “Tyr, get a towel!” she yelled over her shoulder. The carbuncle _boofed_ again, dashing by Aymeric as the elezen raced down to the water’s edge.

The wahoo definitely had attracted a squid, the cephalopod wrapped tightly around the wavekin’s head. Hanging on to the _tail_ , however, exhausted and drenched, was a powder blue chocobo chick with a small orange and white flotation device around it.

“Oh, _honey,_ ” Synnove said, reaching out for the chick once she was close enough, nearly chest deep with her feet still on the sand. The little cloudkin let go of the wahoo and peeped tiredly as she gathered it into her arms. The squid, meanwhile, gave one last fierce tug on the fishing line, snapping it, and escaped back to the depths with its prize.

Synnove waded back onto the artificial island, exchanging a wide-eyed look of shock with Aymeric before turning her attention back to the chick. “Where on Hydaelyn did you come from, little one?” she said as she knelt down on her beach towel.

“Kweh,” the chick said.

Aymeric accepted the spare towel from Tyr when the carbuncle trotted over, and held it out for Synnove to deposit the chick into, sans its little life preserver. He began carefully drying the chick with soft pats of his hands. “I had heard the Holy Stables had recently sold a clutch to a breeder outside Coerthas interested in training steeds to swim,” he said, “but while I’ll need to check the records, I’m fairly confident it wasn’t _anywhere_ near Vylbrand.”

“Kweh,” the chick said again, muffled by the towel. It carefully nosed its head out, blinking up at the people and carbuncle staring down at it. “Kweh!”

“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” Synnove crooned. She reached into her catch bucket, taking out one of the smaller gobies, and held it out to the chick. The little chocobo peeped happily and snagged the fish in its beak, tossing its head back to gobble it down. Synnove fed it three more gobies before the chick yawned and cuddled down into its makeshift towel nest, still held carefully in Aymeric’s hands. It cheeped one last “kweh,” and promptly fell asleep.

Synnove was utterly besotted. Aymeric chuckled while Tyr sighed heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some cute fluff for you guys! Merry Christmas! <3


	27. Carbuncle-nip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #26: Not a Weapon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 26, 2018.

Synnove didn’t realize Galette had gotten into the office supplies until she heard, somewhere behind her, a loud **_CRUNCH._**

The arcanist whipped around in her chair, searching frantically for the noise. Her gaze finally settled on a trio of emerald tails and matching pair of hind legs sticking out from the now _open_ cabinet where she stored the nice tools. Like the aether-infused chalk.

Synnove felt all the blood drain from her face.

_‘Oh, my gods, I have no idea what kind of reaction a living aether construct will have consuming aether-infused items,_ ’ she thought, staring in stunned horror, too shocked to move. A smaller voice in the very back of her mind, one Synnove mostly ignored since it was nowhere near as important, was instead screeching, _‘Swiving SHITE, that chalk is EXPENSIVE!’_

And then suddenly Galette flopped over onto her side.

Synnove shrieked, shooting up from her chair so fast it rocked back and forth on its legs before crashing onto its side as she dashed across the office to her prone carbuncle. She dropped to her knees next to Galette, gathering her up in her arms. “Galette? Galette!” she called out frantically.

Galette flopped her head over to meet Synnove’s terrified gaze. The carbuncle’s pupils were blown completely wide, and she blinked sluggishly. “ _Myaaaaaaa,”_ she said, voice rising and falling, raising her paw to shakily pap Synnove’s cheek. _Mommy. Mommy, I can see sound._

Synnove went from terrified to confused so quickly she felt mental whiplash. She furrowed her brow. “…What.”

Galette wiggled out of Synnove’s hold, pushing against her summoner’s stomach with her hind legs, and hit the floor with a graceless _thunk!_ on her side. She heaved herself to her feet and wobbled back to the cabinet, listing side to side like a patron of the Drowned Wench. The dusty remains of the aether chalk were on the cabinet’s floor, and the carbuncle flopped face first into it, legs and tails and ears spread out. A sound not unlike a magitek engine being started up began rumbling throughout the office.

Synnove covered her face with her hands, trying not to snort a laugh when she realized what that sound was: Galette purring.

“Oh my gods, Galette,” she said, giving up and starting to snicker, “I thought you’d hurt yourself! Or had turned yourself into a bomb!”

A long, loud chiming meow, echoing out of the cabinet. _Mommy I feel sooooooooooo good._

The arcanist tumbled over backwards clutching her stomach, and laughed herself silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to the FC and friends for throwing out ideas at me until I finally had an idea for this prompt. XD


	28. Loyalty, Unity, Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #27: Fling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 27, 2018.

The first night that Ala Mhigo stood free in two epochs, griffin banners waving from every tower and wall, the people of Gyr Abania threw one _hell_ of a party.

In Ala Mhigo itself, its rightful citizens broke into their old homes taken from them by their Garlean overlords, gathering food and drink from the kitchens and storerooms and bringing them back to the slum districts in which they had been forced to live. Most of the flavors were wrong, reflecting the spices and palates of Ilsabard, but it was _food,_ and better eating than many had had in a long time. Wine bottles were passed between strangers and friends alike, while bread and cheese and dried meats were pressed into the hands of children. The spoils from a candy shop were carefully meted out, too, portions allotted to keep from upsetting stomachs unused to rich fare. As they ate and drank, their elders sat in places of honor and told stories of Rhalgr and past kings and queens and folk heroes that had not been openly shared beneath the stars in twenty years.

Also in Ala Mhigo, and Ala Gannha, and Ala Ghiri, and the Peering Stones, and every other village and town throughout the region as the news spread, bonfires were lit. Garlean flags and banners served as the fuel, as well as the uniforms of the forced conscripts. As twilight fell and the flames reached towards the heavens, townsfolk and villagers began singing “The Measure of His Reach,” with tears pouring down more than one face. They sang it once, and then again, and again, and again, and kept singing long into the night, until their voices were hoarse and broken and their eyes sore and their hearts full. (Years later, grandparents would tell their grandchildren that the mountains had echoed so strongly with the triumphant voices of Gyr Abania, that all of Eorzea had heard them sing.)

And at Porta Praetoria, where the Ala Mhigan Resistance and Eorzean Alliance were camped, they sang the loudest and drank the deepest—and danced the hardest.

Synnove was half draped over Heron’s shoulder, the pair of them watching Rereha drink a mixed group of Resistance soldiers and members of the Immortal Flames’ Ala Mhigan Brigade under the table. Most of the Brigade were watching, too, and heckling their fellows: the only ones participating were relatively new members who hadn’t yet learned that one did not enter into drinking contests with Rereha Reha if one wanted to keep their liver. The Resistance soldiers were faring a little better, but that wasn’t saying much. Three had conceded, two were under the table, and five of the Brigade members had been dragged off to the medics.

“Gods, this is sad,” Synnove said, eyeing a miqo’te listing heavily to one side.

“Hilarious, though,” Heron said with a wide smirk.

Rereha drained her tenth pint and slammed it on the table in front of her. She was bright-eyed and _perky,_ still. “Another!” she bellowed. One of the other Resistance soldiers slid out of his seat and onto the ground, groaning. Another simply passed out, head thudding against the table.

Synnove and Heron shook their heads and laughed.

“Synnove! Synnove Synnove Synnove!”

The Highlander in question straightened up, eyebrows raised, just in time for a blur of blonde hair and red silk to crash into her. Synnove yelped and flailed, trying to regain her balance and keep herself, and the pugilist clinging to her, standing. Heron finally took pity and reached out to shove them both upright.

“Thank you, Heron!” Lyse said brightly, before turning back to Synnove. “Synnove, this is very important! Do you know how to do the sword dance?”

Synnove looked aghast, and her voice was sharp when she replied. “Do I know how to do a sword dance? How dare you ask me that, my da’s a weaponsmaster! My aunt’s family founded the Ebon Bear Dance Troupe! _Of course_ I know how to do the sword dance!”

“Perfect!” Lyse crowed, grabbing her hand and dragging the taller woman behind her as she headed to the center of the camp. “We’re doing the quartet variation and need a fourth!”

Synnove looked over her shoulder at Heron and shrugged helplessly. “Guess I’m dancing tonight!” she called back as they disappeared behind a tent.

Heron snorted to herself, then reached over and tapped Rereha on the shoulder. “Come on, Rere, you’ve humiliated the professional soldiers enough for one night,” she said. “Synnove’s dancing.”

“Oh, _fine._ ”

The remaining soldiers groaned in relief.

The pair of them wound a meandering path to the open area at the encampment center, at the base of Porta Praetoria, picking up Alakhai from a dice game on the way. The trio unceremoniously shoved their way to their front, although most of the milling crowd moved out of the way of three of the four Warriors of Light. Heron gracefully dropped to the ground to sit in lotus position so she wouldn’t block anyone else’s view, Rereha shamelessly crawling into her lap and Alakhai kneeling next to them; some of the other taller audience members followed their example. A circle fifteen paces across had been staked out for the dancers and had been completely cleared and flattened in just a short amount of time. A group of musicians sat just at the edge a little to their right, made up of a fiddler, two pipers, and six drummers: two darbukas, two tabels, and two bodhráns.

The three waved to their friend at the other side of the circle. Synnove waved back before she ducked back down into the small cluster she had formed with Lyse, M’naago, and one of the other Resistance officers, Hele. Every now and then one of the women gestured; the quartet was apparently still conferring on details.

Finally, the group split up, each of the women standing at one of the cardinal points: Lyse north, Hele south, Synnove east, and M’naago west. The milling crowd went silent as the dancers each took their positions. Heron could see the Alliance leaders in some of the prime viewing spots along the circle’s edge, along with General Aldynn and Vice Marshal Tarupin. Pipin, like many of the other Eorzeans, looked curious; Raubahn and many other Ala Mhigans wore expressions that were equal parts excited and wistful.

Rereha quietly clapped her hands in excitement and Heron could see Alakhai flash a grin out of the corner of her eye. Heron felt herself tense in anticipation, too: the three of them had seen Synnove practice this dance before with her Aunt Angharad, but a quartet sword dance would be a new experience.

At a signal from Lyse, the musicians raised their instruments and began playing. Five beats into the song, the women all raised their arms above their heads, hands poised gracefully, and began to dance.

The music was lively and so were the dancers’ movements: floating leaps interspersed with high steps, the four bouncing and grinning as they moved in a circle. The crowd began clapping along with the drummers’ beat, laughter ringing out as the women whirled around and occasionally interrupted their own dance to interact with the crowd in some manner. Lyse reached out to hug Alphinaud, cheerfully swinging him around in a circle while the young elezen shouted in protest, before setting him down, leaping back into place with a broad wink. Synnove blew Ser Aymeric a kiss, the Lord Commander bowing in response, both of their wide smiles near blinding with love. Hele took it a step further, dragging her own apparent ladylove into an enthusiastic kiss; the crowd catcalled and whistled. M’naago rolled her eyes and made a ‘what can you do’ gesture as she leaped along, then grinned and exchanged a complicated handshake with two of her squadmates before whirling back into sync with the others.

The second turn around the ring, the dancers simultaneously repeated their antics with new targets. Lyse grabbed Arenvald and led him in a few steps of an exaggerated tango, with Arenvald laughing so hard he nearly toppled over entirely when Lyse dipped him. Synnove raised her arms high above her head and clapped three times, whistling in time to the music. With a burst of sparkling aether, all three of her carbuncles tumbled out of the air to frolic around her feet for the full turn, before scrambling away to different groups of people: Galette to Ser Aymeric and the Ishgardians, Tyr to the Scions, and Ivar to the Warriors of Light. Hele grabbed both Orella and Wiscar and the trio linked their forearms, whirling around in a ring dance, before Orella and Wiscar launched Hele into another pack of Resistance soldiers, who set the laughing officer back on her feet to rejoin the dance. M’naago raised her arms in a victory gesture, grinning almost maniacally, because she was in position to reach out and clasp Raubahn’s wrist. The general’s laugh was raucous, but he obliged the miqo’te and matched her in an Ala Mhigan reel, to the roaring approval of the crowd.

The dancers made a third rotation without the interruptions, their expressions gradually becoming more serious as they focused on their steps. Once they reached their starting points again, two things happened: four members of the crowd darted forward and placed Ala Mhigan style scimitars crossed with their scabbards to form a quartered square beneath the dancers’ flashing feet; and the music changed, the fiddle falling away to leave the pipes and drums as the latter began playing a faster, almost more militant beat. The crowd continued clapping in time, and somewhere in the back, a group began singing an Ala Mhigan war chant.

The women remained mostly stationary for this phase, circling instead their own scimitar and scabbard as they stepped high. Their arms and hands flowed gracefully, in contrast to the quick movements of their legs and feet, moving from each quarter either side to side or diagonally. At set intervals, they pirouetted and leaped clockwise to the next set dancer’s sword and scabbard, repeating the full dance at each set before they finally returned to their original position.

Then the pipes fell away, and the drums began thrumming _hard_ and _loud._ The Ala Mhigans knew what was happening: those still standing were now stomping as they clapped, with their Eorzean fellows just a few beats behind, and every Ala Mhigan in the camp had taken up the war chant. As the music rose, each of the four dancers shoved a foot beneath the crossed join of the scimitar and scabbard, throwing both up into the air. Each scimitar was caught by the hilt, the scabbard by the throat, and the women _leaped_ towards the center of the circle: Hele and Synnove’s blades met high, Lyse and M’naago’s met low beneath the other pair, and the song of ringing steel joined the drums.

Cheers and whoops of delight rang out from the crowd; more than one Ala Mhigan had tears streaming down their face. In a heartbeat, the dancers disengaged, leaping back and beginning to move around the circle again, but this time they were each a whirling dervish of live steel. They swung the blades tightly around themselves, but they darted across the ring, too, to take each other’s place: Hele and Synnove, Lyse and M’naago, blades meeting so quickly as they passed that sparks flew. They mock fought, as well: Synnove and Lyse, Hele and M’naago, then Synnove with M’naago and Lyse with Hele, swords clashing and metal scabbards flashing to act as makeshift shields. Despite the seeming chaos present within the ring, all of their movements were coordinated, and not a step was out of place and not a single drop of blood drawn.

As the drums and war chant reached a crescendo, the dancers leaped to the center of the ring again with a shout, all four blades meeting in a shower of sparks and an echoing clash of steel. The quartet disengaged their blades and whirled on the balls of their feet to face outward towards the crowd, scimitars held before them. As the last drumbeat rang out, the dancers sheathed their blades, and bowed.

The crowd’s roar of approval was so thunderous, it could be heard from the walls of Ala Mhigo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know the female Highlander dance? Looks an awful lot like the Highland Fling. So I indulged my headcanon that Ala Mhigan dancing includes things like the Highling Fling, Scottish sword dance, and various Georgian dances like the xevsuruli, with a few of my own twists. This is especially true since all the patch info for 4.5 has me fucking terrified. x_x; Please stop being terrible to Ala Mhigo, SE, my heart can't take it.
> 
> (Also, this has been heavily edited from the original, gained 600 or so more words, and now officially beats out "Grenades and Dragonkillers" as the longest fill of the challenge in its edited state.)


	29. Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #28: Echo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published to my Tumblr on November 28, 2018.
> 
> Spoilers for the "Tales from the Storm" entry "The First Step."

“Again.”

Fordola growled under her breath, but she pushed herself back to her feet and resumed the starting position of her shamshir drill. Synnove merely turned the page of her arcanima journal as the other woman began sparring against an invisible opponent.

A key difference between the Echo and the Resonance was the multitude of visions of past events granted to the bearer. Arenvald had made an excellent observation that day outside the Resistance prison cells: their own Echo activated at random, and often there were long stretches of dormancy between visions. Rereha, in a rare moment of wisdom (mostly brought on by alcohol), had once posited that the Mothercrystal herself triggered those visions, considering how often they provided insight to some immediately pertinent issue. By contrast, Fordola’s Resonance visions came frequently and were apparently triggered by proximity to anyone having a strong emotional reaction (visible or not) to something—usually her.

General Raubahn’s proposal to use her abilities to combat primal summonings (particularly when the Warriors of Light were asked to handle much bigger problems) as a working sentence had merit. But Fordola would be damn useless if her Resonance visions kept knocking her on her arse out in the field. So: desensitization training. Stick her in a room with someone with a whole host of memories tied to strong emotional states and force her to learn how to push down the visions.

Were there kinder ways to go about it? Probably. Y’shtola had thought the idea unnecessarily cruel, when the Scions and Warriors of Light sat to discuss the General’s idea. Krile, however, white-lipped and eyes still shadowed with memory, had recused herself from the debate, citing an inability to be impartial; Alisaie and Synnove had done the same, and the trio had left the Rising Stones to visit the Garlond Ironworks foundry. Even Alphinaud, staunch believer as he was in allowing individuals a second chance, had merely glanced at his twin before shaking his head at Y’shtola. And that had been that.

Some sessions didn’t go so poorly for the former Skull commander, as a handful of people apparently frequently tripped pleasant or just _strange_ memories. Fordola had once been reduced to helpless giggling during one of the few times Rereha volunteered to sit in, which Rereha said after the fact counted as one of the Top Ten Most Disconcerting Moments in Her Life, Ever, Full Stop. Heron had once been pointblank asked, “How in the Hells do you put up with her?”, to which the Hellsguard had merely shrugged and replied, “She’s basically my little sister; you put up with a lot of ridiculous shite from and _for_ family.”

Fordola had been quiet after that.

Alakhai and Arenvald both triggered visions that frequently left Fordola panting or wild-eyed. Alakhai remained stoic and unflinching during those moments, not looking up from drawing a whetstone along the cutting edge of her knives. Arenvald, by contrast, was firm but sympathetic, and Fordola had recently stopped ignoring him when he offered her water and a moment to recover.

And Synnove?

Synnove was just old enough to remember the frantic escape from Ala Mhigo and across Gyr Abania with her family and other refugees, just ahead of the advancing XIVth Legion. Synnove had been at _Carteneau,_ and while every adult in Eorzea had horrific memories of Bahamut’s rampage across the continent, none could refute the sheer horror experienced by those who had been at the Calamity’s epicenter. Whenever Fordola froze, whole body locked as she experienced those particular terrors, Synnove would pause to look at her, expression shuttered, and when the vision passed, only say, “Again.”

Fordola would snarl, or growl, or sneer, furious pale green eyes meeting pitiless dark green. But she would pick up her shamshir, center herself, and begin the drill again.

Synnove and Fordola would never, ever be mistaken for friends, but there was a certain wary respect that developed when two people experienced some of the worst moments of one another’s lives in such an odd, impersonally intimate way.

The ex-pilus prior was nearly done with this particular set of forms when she froze for a moment, right eye flashing red on black sclera, and wobbled. In the next heartbeat, both eyes were pale green again, and Fordola deliberately widened her stance to regain her balance. She blinked three times, in rapid succession, reorienting herself.

Synnove watched with the cold, wary eyes of a hunting wolf. The smile she suddenly wore was more a baring of teeth than anything friendly, but pride would have been disingenuous. “Better,” she said. And then: “Again.”

Fordola answered with the same baring of teeth, but her gaze was triumphant.

This time, despite her Resonant eye flashing twice more, she finished the drill without flaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fordola is a really fascinating character and she's one of my favorites from Stormblood. That said, there is absolutely no way in hell any of the Squad (least of all Synnove) would get along with her.
> 
> Also I am deeply, deeply, _deeply_ annoyed that Fordola's story was resolved in a short story published on the Lodestone rather than in game. *sighs* So many Ala Mhigan plot threads still unaddressed but Doma got basically three patches. I am...more than a little bitter.


	30. Silver Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #29: Dote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 29, 2018.

_My dearest Synnove,_

_A little bird informed me that by some miracle of holiday scheduling, you will have a brief reprieve from your duties at the Guild beginning on the 17 th Sun of the Sixth Umbral Moon. I invite you, Galette, Tyr, and Ivar to accompany me on a little excursion of the Central Highlands. Please meet me at Camp Dragonhead on the evening of Earthsday, the 18th Sun of the Sixth Umbral Moon, at five bells past noon. Dress warm, and bring only yourselves; I will handle the preparations._

_With all my love,_

_Aymeric_

~~

Synnove finished tying the scarf around Tyr’s neck, adjusting it so the ends lay flat down his chest. “How’s that, love?” she said. “Not too tight?”

Tyr boofed, tapping his snow-bootie-covered feet excitedly. _No, Mama, it’s perfect!_

“Excellent!” She smoothed her hands down his ears, Tyr rumbling out his brass bell purr, before standing upright, tugging her emerald wool coat straight. Galette grumbled from her perch around Synnove’s neck and resettled herself into her mama’s fur-trimmed collar and hood, the emerald carbuncle herself bundled up in a scarf, snow booties, jacket, and earmuffs. Synnove gave the carbuncle’s cheek a scritch, then took her gloves from her belt and pulled them on.

The sun had set a little over a bell ago; the stars were still coming out, and the moon hung huge and full in the welkin. It was cold enough there weren’t any clouds to obscure the magnificent sight, thus there was no forthcoming snow, and the wind was blessedly still. If it hadn’t been, Galette probably would have burrowed down into her coat, garments and all.

“You know,” Synnove said slowly as she finished tugging on her second glove, “you didn’t have to accompany me.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Rereha said, her tone a little _too_ sweet and innocent, muffled as it was by the knit scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. She was even more heavily bundled up then Galette, but her golden eyes glittered with ill-suppressed glee from the space between the scarf and her matching hat.

“We were planning on attending the Starlight party Hilda is hosting tonight with the Watch anyway,” Heron said, her smiling blinding against her dark bronze skin. Alakhai’s grin matched. The Hellsguard continued, “What a lovely coincidence!”

Synnove gave all three of her friends the stink eye. None of them flinched, the traitors. “I trust none of you.”

“Wise,” Alakhai said, before ambling over to one of the braziers lining the Dragonhead courtyard. She stood on tiptoe and peered in. “Go warm your mama’s toes, firebug.”

Ivar lifted his head from the coals and grumbled, but leaped gracefully to the ground in a cascade of embers as Alakhai rejoined her friends. A few of the House Fortemps knights clapped appreciatively, and though Ivar pretended to ignore them, his saunter over to his summoner radiated smugness (and steam, as his paws tapped against the frozen flagstones). He gave himself a last shake to dislodge any further detritus, then promptly loafed himself on Synnove’s feet.

Synnove gave a long, delighted sigh. “Oh, that feels wonderful, thank you.”

Ivar chittered. _‘Course, Mama._

Rereha elbowed Heron’s knee. The taller woman rolled her eyes, but made a production of pulling her jacket sleeve up and peering at her wrist chronometer. “Well, look at that. Thirty seconds to five bells past noon!” Heron said, her grin somehow widening even more.

Synnove scowled at her, then scowled even more fiercely when she realized that many of the on-duty knights were grinning, too. And that there were more than a few faces pressed against the Great Hall windows that she could see, including certain nobles of the High House itself. Great good gods, the sons all apparently inherited that mischievous grin of theirs from their father. “How many of you are in on this?” she hissed.

“Oh, damn near everyone,” Alakhai drawled.

“We wouldn’t miss your reaction to this for all the dancing men and women in Ul’dah,” Rereha said cheerfully.

Collectively, three exasperated Warriors of Light: “ _Rere._ ”

“Whaaaaat? It’s the truth! Well, at least for me.”

Synnove opened her mouth to say something scathing, but she stopped, blinking in surprise, and closed it. She blinked again, cocking her head to the side; Galette perked up, ears twitching, and all three carbuncles’ heads swiveled to look west.

Was that… bells?

Over the rise and through the open end of the western end of the camp, from the direction of Ishgard proper, came a ruby red open sleigh, its golden runners sliding with barely a whisper of sound across the ground. The sleigh was pulled by a pair of Coerthan unicorns in polished black harness; the unicorns’ coats were curried to gleaming white, shining even brighter than the snow around them and practically glowing against the harness’s leather. Silver bells jingled merrily along the traces, girths, and reins, and sprigs of bright holly had been braided into the manes of each unicorn and hung at the base of each of their horns.

The unicorns curved around smartly to pull the sleigh up parallel—the Fortemps crest emblazoned on the side now visible—to where Synnove stood with her hands over her mouth in shock, and halted with a bright ringing of bells. Aymeric sat in the front seat, reins held easily in his hands, grinning widely. More than a few knights whistled, one calling out, “Now _that_ is an entrance!”

Synnove squeaked.

Galette _shrieked_ with joy. _MOMMY, UNICORNS!_ Synnove was too stunned to react, even though it had been right in her ear.

Tyr was running a circle around his mama in excitement. Ivar was bouncing up and down right on Synnove’s feet, chattering in unison with his big brother. _Mama, Mama, sleigh ride! Mama Mama Mama sleigh ride sleigh ride sleigh ride!!!_

Aymeric climbed down from the sleigh and bowed, holding out his hand when he rose. “Your carriage awaits, my lady,” he said, blue eyes twinkling.

Synnove squeaked again. Her own hands were still over her mouth and her eyes were huge.

Aymeric turned to look at her oldest friends, eyebrow quirked. “Did I break her?”

“Yes,” they all said.

“She’ll be fine,” Rereha added, then made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on now, go be disgustingly romantic with a moonlight sleigh ride.”

The Lord Commander laughed and turned to the topaz and ruby carbuncle now peering up at him with huge, dark eyes, their tails lashing. “The back seat is for you, boys,” he said.

Tyr and Ivar cheered and darted to the sleigh, hopping up into the back in neat jumps. They settled onto a padded platform that ran up right to the front seat, made into a comfortable nest with thick blankets and soft pillows. Tyr immediately loafed, burbling happily as he snuggled down, while Ivar set his front paws on the back of the sleigh, looking around imperiously.

Aymeric took a step closer to Synnove, gently clasping her hands and pulling them away from her face. The Highlander was slack jawed as she stared at him. She squeaked a third time. Galette was purring so hard she was practically a symphony of bells all her own.

“Are you all right, Synnove?” he said, worry starting to shine in his eyes.

Synnove stared up at him for a long moment. Then she shook her hands free, grasped his face, and pulled him down into a kiss.

A raucous cheer went up around the courtyard from the knights and other Fortemps retainers. Rereha and Heron and Alakhai were, of course, the loudest.

When the pair broke apart, Aymeric’s expression could be most accurately described as ‘lovestruck and dopey.’ “I will assume that was a ‘yes,’ then,” he said, grinning widely.

Synnove threw her arms around him in a hug, another delighted squeak escaping her. Galette swished her tails away so she didn’t accidentally smother Aymeric, and the carbuncle gave him a gentle headbutt. Aymeric hugged Synnove back just as tightly, and turned his head to give Galette’s forehead a kiss.

(A collective “awwwww!” went up around them, but they ignored the smugly delighted crowd.)

After a few moments, they pulled back a little. Aymeric led Synnove to the sleigh, helping her step up into the front seat. Once she was settled, he climbed up after her and spread a heavy woolen blanket across both their laps. Galette slithered off her mama’s shoulders into the spot between them, wriggling under the blanket and then popping her head out with a flick of her ears.

“Comfortable?” Aymeric said, picking up the reins.

“Yes!” Synnove said.

He laughed. “Finally remembering your words,” he said, leaning over to drop a kiss on her nose. Synnove giggled.

Aymeric looked to the carbuncles. “Ready?”

Tyr poked his head between Aymeric and Synnove; Ivar’s head popped over Synnove’s opposite shoulder. With their sister, they all said, “ _Myaaaa!_ ” _Ready!_

Aymeric shook the reins and the unicorns took off at a trot, pulling the sleigh north out of the confines of Camp Dragonhead and towards the wooded slopes of Providence Point in a whirl of ringing bells and cheering carbuncles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it is my headcanon that Aymeric de Borel is the smoothest, most romantic man in all of Ishgard. When the news of this hits the grapevine, every noblewoman who wasted her time swooning over the members of the Heavens' Ward is full of regrets.


	31. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #30: Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr on November 30, 2018.

The small manor stood in what the Garleans had called the Regio V, but what the Ala Mhigans called the Wolf’s Den for the preponderance of clans and their various cadet branches that had lived within it and claimed a wolf for their sigil. It was in the southwestern portion of the city; despite being close to where the Garleans had initially invaded, it had been the last holdout in Ala Mhigo itself, finally falling four days after the rest of the city was taken.

The largest estate had once belonged to House Wolfe, who had been one of the foremost noble families in the city, and had seen all their members executed or slaughtered during the Mad King’s reign. The Blackwolfe family had been the senior cadet branch, but what few survivors there were had abandoned the name to avoid comparisons to the Legatus of the XIVth Legion. House Whitewolfe and House Redwolfe had been the next most senior branches, scions of second-born twins, and rumor had it they had vanished into the mountains, either among the Abalathian villages or whatever Resistance cells would have them.

As for the fourth cadet branch…

The lentil above the gate of this particular manor had once born a wolf’s head carved into the stone that gazed straight ahead, the grey of its fur and gold of its eyes renewed with fresh paint every month. The paint had long since worn away, though the carving itself was still pristine. Covered by a Garlean flag or banner, no doubt, surprising only in that the sigil hadn’t been chiseled out entirely as it had with other family marks throughout Ala Mhigo.

Synnove stared up the wolf, face carefully blanked, before swinging open the wrought iron gate and stepping onto the grounds of House Greywolfe for the first time in twenty-four years.

The small front garden she strode through had once been a riot of color: Grandmother had loved flowers and would personally see to the care of her beloved blooms. There had been morning glory vines covering the side of the manor, in blues and purples, specially bred as a gift from Grandfather to withstand the chilly Ala Mhigan climate; roses in pink and yellow and white, the bushes imported from Coerthas; amaryllis and larkspur in spring, lilac and lilies and hydrangeas in summer, anemones and carnations and yarrow in autumn. The Garleans that had claimed her ancestral home had stripped the flower beds entirely, ripped away the morning glory trellises, and torn down the giant oak that had shaded the front rooms of the manor for seventy years. Neatly trimmed shrubs instead lined the walk up to the front doors that Synnove now strode, and the rest of what was once the most beautiful garden in the Wolf’s Den was neatly trimmed grass.

Grandmother would have _hated_ it. Synnove had the brief thought that if she burned that wretched mockery of a lawn, the ash would feed any new blooms quite well.

The left door of the manor swung ajar; its previous occupants leaving in a hurry, apparently. Synnove pushed it open, ignoring the slight tremble in her hands, and walked inside without hesitation.

Her memories of the entrance foyer were dim; plush carpets and vibrant tapestries had been here, once. At least one of the tapestries had featured a wolf, and another a griffin; what good Ala Mhigan noble family, even one of minor rank, wouldn’t possess such prideful, boasting displays of their name and heritage? Another tapestry with a bear had been added when Aunt Angharad had married her uncle, in deference to her status despite her family being minor country nobles, not natives of Ala Mhigo proper.

They were all gone, of course. The foyer echoed with her footsteps, no carpets or tapestries to muffle the sound.

She didn’t bother going through the rooms one by one, trying to identify the library or her nursery, or searching for the training salles and armories that the family had maintained as some of the best weaponsmasters and tutors within the City of the White Griffin. Those would have been stripped as bare as the rest of the house when whatever officer or bureaucrat or version of a Garlean noble had moved in and would have been as unrecognizable as the garden. Most of Synnove’s memories of her first home had long been overshadowed, anyway, both by the tension of the Mad King’s reign and then the terrifying race through the city with the ragged remains of her family, in a chocobo-drawn cart, as the Black Wolf and his legion slowly devoured everything in their path to total conquest.

No, there was only one place in the manor where she had a chance of finding anything of value, if it still remained.

Up the second floor, then the third. The fourth had had the servants’ quarters. And the fifth—

—the fifth was the attic.

The door squealed angrily as Synnove pushed it open, and the Highlander grimaced. Long neglected, clearly, but that gave her some hope.

Sunlight streamed in through the southern windows, shading the huge open space in gold; dust motes danced through the air with the disturbance of her arrival. Everything was covered by drop cloths: chests, furniture, more numerous than she had anticipated. As she stood at the attic entrance, she stared around her with eyes wide in bewilderment. Had they truly just shoved everything up here?

And against the back wall, each individually wrapped in clothes turned from white to grey with dust: paintings, still in their frames.

Synnove swallowed heavily, mouth and throat suddenly dry.

She wove her way carefully among the detritus, the floorboards creaking with every step she took; once the city was secure in its entirety, she would see about bringing Da and Aunt Angharad here. They would know better than her what were the true valuables hiding beneath the dust of two epochs of lost memory.

When she reached the portraits, she drew her fingers across the cloth-covered top of one of the frames. Gilt, curling edges, it felt like. Taking a deep breath, she carefully unwrapped the first one in front of her, kneeling to carefully ease the cloth to the floor to keep from damaging the portrait itself.

Synnove closed her eyes, pressing her hand against her mouth, and took five deep breaths. “Get on with it, girl,” she said to herself, then forced her eyes open.

Grandmother, dark brown hair long since silvered with age and swept into an elegant knot. Green eyes warm and dancing, her dress fine red silk, a rope of black pearls wrapped around her neck and hanging in three loops to her waist. Arm in arm with Grandfather, her ruby firebug’s namesake, the old man scowling as ever because standing for portraits was a waste of time! But Grandmother always managed to talk him into it, she could remember that now, and the painter had captured the wrinkles at the corner of Grandfather’s amber eyes that meant he was trying not to smile.

Synnove sat down, hard, cross legged, and put her face in her hands. Her breath hitched, and her shoulders heaved, but she managed to keep a hold of herself. _Not now. Later, later._

Sitting upright, she dragged in a ragged breath, forcing herself to calm. She gently ran her fingers down Grandmother’s cheek, then Grandfather’s, before carefully sliding the portrait in its cloth pool to the side. She scooched closer, to reach the frame behind that one, and unceremoniously yanked the cloth down.

Da and Mother, in their wedding finery. Neither were smiling, but they were relaxed, at ease with one another despite their formal posture. Mother looked every inch the well-bred Ul’dahn merchant princess: skin pale, blue eyes glittering, black hair glossy. Da was almost the exact opposite: dark skin and fiery red hair, and the Greywolfe amber eyes.

Synnove shoved that one aside without preamble; maybe she could find one of the solo portraits of Da another time. The next painting wasn’t a portrait, but a landscape: the southern end of Abalathia’s Spine, where the mountains suddenly plunged down to the sea. She vaguely remembered this one; in the library, perhaps? Or one of the hallways in the family wing. Aunt Angharad would know.

Behind that the landscape _was_ another portrait, though.

Synnove put her head in her hands again, a sob bursting her from her chest, and this time she didn’t fight it as her shoulders shook and she _bawled_ like she hadn’t done since Carteneau. She didn’t know how long she cried, but she wasn’t quite finished when she forcibly wiped at her streaming eyes. She sniffed, hard, and looked up again.

Aunt Angharad, a few years after her wedding, beaming fit to burst, chestnut hair in a thick braid over her shoulder. And next to her, the painter somehow managing to capture how stupidly in love with his wife he was (the same one she saw Aymeric give her), his amber eyes shining…

“Hullo, Uncle Tyr.” Synnove’s voice broke with another sob, and her next breath was a deep wheeze as she attempted to steady herself. She scrubbed her hand on her pants to dry them of tears before reaching out to touch his painted cheek. “It’s good to see your face again.”

When she finally stopped crying, her nose was stuffy, her head hurt, her eyes were swollen and probably bloodshot, and the sun was starting to go down beneath the western peaks. Synnove took her jacket off, pulling up the bottom of her shirt to scrub her face free of tears and mucous before shrugging the jacket back on. She stood on wobbly legs, and carefully rewrapped the landscape and the portraits of Grandmother and Grandfather and Da and Mother, leaning them back up against the other covered paintings. They could wait.

The portrait of Aunt Angharad and Uncle Tyr she rewrapped with special reverence; she dug out another cloth from a pile of discards off the side and wrapped the frame with that, too. She double-checked everything was secure, then gripped either side tightly. With a grunt, she hoisted it up, setting the back of it against her hip, and shuffled through the dimming attic with her cargo towards the stairs.

The door shut with a quiet _click_ behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're done! This last fill took a bit to get started, but once it got started, I wrote until it was finished--and definitely got sniffly and cried a few times!
> 
> Thank you everyone who's been reading the past month (or two, if you follow me on tumblr!), left a kudos, or dropped a comment. It's been a blast! :D A very Happy New Year to you and yours!


End file.
